Captured
by ixke
Summary: Brittana story: Santana & Quinn usually drive home together, but one day the stubborn brunette decides to go home alone - hoping she'll be on time for a family dinner. While she's forced to wait for the traffic lights to turn green, a mysterious person drags her off her bike & kidnaps her. That's where she needs to adapt to a new, abusive lifestyle ... and a new friend, Brittany.
1. Just another normal day

_A while ago, I finished Journal of Unexpected Love, my first ever Brittana fanfic._

_I've had some amazing responses to that, found some critical comments that made me think and reconsider things and after a short break, I've started writing again. And here it is, a new story._

_Again, Santana's perspective._

_Again about Brittana._

_I really hope you enjoy it ..._

* * *

**Just another normal day**

Just the same old normal day: school was dull, practice was hard, my best friend is late.

"Will you hurry up! I need to be home in five minutes!"

It sounds extremely irritated and impatient. It's the usual sound of me.

The girl in front of me looks up in a hurry and frowns deeply, while rubbing her blond hairs dry with a towel. Cheerleading practice has run late - which has _absolutely nothing_ to do with my big mouthed response to the coach's orders today - and waiting for Quinn _freaking_ Fabray takes even longer.

We have this thing: we ride our bikes home together. It's been like that since we first started cheerleading practice about five years ago. We never changed the tradition. While the wind messes up our hair, the two of us traditionally recapitulate the day that's passed. A second peek at my watch. It's a ten minute drive until I reach the house where my family lives, which means I'm never going to get home in time.

"Come on, Fabray. Just leave your hair like that. Doesn't matter."

I sound annoyed. No, I _am_ annoyed. This always happens. I never manage to get somewhere on time. Quinn heaves a deep sigh and turns around, dressed in nothing more than her underwear. She has a nice body; very athletically build. She's small, but cute. That is until she opens her big bitchy mouth. But I'm the one to say ... We're very much alike and it's probably the reason why we are such good friends. Apart from the habitual backstabbing and gossiping, we always seem to end up at the exact same spot: next to each other. Must be a stereotypical cheerleading kind of friendship.

"I'm not even dressed yet, Santana." she emphasizes. "And I could end up getting sick if I get up on my bike with my hair wet. I _can't_ get sick. Do you want us to lose Nationals?"

Sure, that ancient old argument. She's so full of herself. Always has been.

"Oh, right, like it all depends on you?" I smirk, clearly unimpressed, while crossing my arms in a defensive way.

She drops the towel and walks over to me, still wearing nothing more than those pink undies and a same-colored bra. I unconsciously sneak a peek. Killer abs she's got.

"I happen to be _captain_ of the Cheerios."

Oh, God. She just _loves_ to repeat that title to me. Every day again, one hundred times an hour, she needs to remind me of the fact that she ended up on top of the pyramid.

"Yeah, well, and I'm the _bitch_ of the Cheerios, so you better hurry up." I counter her comment, carrying some threatening persuasion.

I frown and have another look at my watch: "Damn, my mom is going to kill me."

My family's got quite the temper. That's the thing with hispanic people. Put 'em all together in one house and there's a daily war going on. Also, it's my dad's birthday dinner this evening. One week late, but - well, the man's got a busy schedule. And anything that's about food, is of great importance to us, so tonight's family reunion promised to be big and festive and ... about all of us. Of course I'm late again - I should've known. I'm always late. But this time, mom's not going to let me get away with a simple _sorry_.

Quinn suddenly and surprisingly softens up. I never tell anyone about my personal life, because ... well, it's _personal_. But she knows, deep down inside, that I don't like to disappoint my family. Is that sympathy, hiding somewhere deep underneath her thick layers of bitchiness?

"Go! I'll be fine." she tells me, waving her hand casually.

Her words surprise me. The only times we didn't drive home together was when one of us was sick. And with a coach like Sue, you need to be incapable of moving an inch without puking - or nearly dying - to be categorized sick.

"Are you sure? I ... I guess I can come up with some excuse."

The changing room is entirely empty apart from us. Everyone went home on time. Except us, we just had to blab in the shower until we were out of hot water. God, we'll never learn.

She shakes her head randomly.

"No, it's okay, Santana. Don't worry. What's the worst thing that can happen, right?"

_You could fall on your face and break your nose. And I'd land top spot on the Cheerios._ Oh, wait. That was rude. Thank God I didn't actually say it out loud. She smiles sweetly and that's sort of weird. But I know she's okay with it, so I pick up my bag from the cold tiles underneath my sneakers and in my hurry to get home, I vaguely and rapidly throw an 'I'll see you tomorrow' across the room.

* * *

My bike's where it always is: chained to the big tree on the left side of the entrance of the girl's showers. My fingers dig inside of my jacket's left pocket to discover the iPod I treasure like it's my baby. Music, I need _loud_ music. Just like during practice, it inspires; it sets the rhythm.

Dressed in our team sweats, I sit down on the saddle and start my impossible challenge to beat time. I'm deafened by a recent Lady Gaga song when my wheels race across the street that's two more blocks away from the place I live. As soon as I realize just how fast I'm going, a proud smile takes over my face. If only Quinn could see, she would never be able to keep up. Her words echo through my mind: Captain of the Cheerios. Next, I heave an irritated sigh. _Bitch_. Coach Sue should've begged _me_ to take that spot, but no, I guess that blonde with her fake, cute smile is the better poster girl.

In front of me, a familiar crossroad appears. The light is green, but that changes the second I'm close enough to cross. _Just my luck._ I sigh annoyed and hit the brakes hard. Sure, one might describe me as an impatient and rather quickly agitated person, but I call it eager and focussed.

Lady Gaga switches to Britney Spears. An amused smile appears once more. Nobody can ever know how much I secretly love Britney Spears. She's my dirty little iPod secret. My lips start mouthing along with the lyrics I know from the heart. No cars are crossing the intersection in front of me. Not even pedestrians. There's absolutely nobody to be seen. So basically, I'm wasting my time over nothing. Given: it is getting late, I guess most people are already home. Cheerleading practice always takes up half of my free moments. That means that by the time I get home, it's usually gloaming. My eyes feel soar by the time I enter the well lit house of my parents. Rush hour always passes me by an hour - or an hour and a half. Besides, this isn't exactly a busy road. It's the point where Quinn and I separate ways, though. She goes left here, I cross the street.

Behind me, headlights color the asphalt around me yellow. A quick glance over my shoulder teaches me nothing: I'm blinded by the brightness. Impatience takes over my entire being as I sigh and curse while turning my eyes to the traffic light again. Still red. Still not safe to cross. How long can it take? Look on the bright side: at least I'm not the only one around here anymore.

On my left, there's a lonely tree, covering a street light with its leafs. Next to it, a white cat wanders around. It sits down to stare at me with a judging look, patiently and frozen to the spot. It doesn't bother me, though. I'd judge myself too. I lip sync some more lyrics.

A couple of seconds pass and then it happens: green! Finally, finally green. My heart actually skips a beat with joy and a childish smile magically appears on my face. But then the reality hits me: my mom is going to be furious. I'm already aware of that future prospect. The entire dining room is filled with relatives by now. My mom will go all 'That's not an excuse, you should've just left earlier' on whatever I'll come up with at the moment, which is entirely true of course. There will be judging looks. But there's just no way that I'll go down without putting up a fight. Santana Lopez never goes down without putting up a fight.

As I smile softly over some lyrics from Mrs. Spears herself, I put my left foot on the pedal and push my weight off the ground. I'm determined to put my record ride to an end in a couple of minutes. But as I'm fully expecting to start gaining speed, my bike surprisingly doesn't move at all. The false conviction pumps a brief sense of dizziness through my body. While the music blares through my ears, I frown deeply - all confused and startled. I don't even fall over. I don't get what's happening - it's like my bike's glued to the ground. My eyes quickly linger to the asphalt, where there seems to have appeared a strange shadow in the reflection of the lights that came over me a minute ago. It's a person. I recognize the shape of a person!

It all happens in the length of a second, but at the same time, the moment of confusion seems to last forever. Just as I try to look behind me, an arm finds its way around my left shoulder. It grabs my upper body forcefully, while a second one surprises me even more by putting a smelly cloth over my mouth. My head's unmovable.

The unsuspected strike numbs me. This is the first time in my life that I've been so terrifyingly scared - even though I have no clue what's happening. My heart starts racing uncontrollably and every muscle in my body trembles like crazy. I scream loudly, at least I think, because the music is still deafening my ears. My body gets pulled off the saddle I'm sitting on and while I still haven't seen the person that's holding on to me, my mind starts to get a little bit blurry. With my feet high up in the air, everything inside of me screams and orders to get the hell away from here. But I can't. This person is aggressively stopping me.

_I need to fight. I need to put up a freaking fight._ Restricted by the position I'm in, I kick the person behind me as forcefully as possible - but nothing happens; he's not letting go of me. I try to slap him, but I'm being held in such a smart way that I can't really lash out properly. My elbows punch the flesh that's pushed up against my back until they hurt, but after a couple of seconds, my movements start going slack. I feel so weird. So very, very faint, even though I'm hysterical. It's that freaking smelly cloth, covering my mouth. There must be something on it. Something to ...

I close my weary eyes for a second as the images around me twirl. The panic seems to fade out slowly, surprisingly. I wanted to cry a second ago, but that feeling has disappeared. That's when my headphones pop out of my ears. Like I've been smoking ten joints in a row, my view hesitantly watches my iPod fall down on the hard ground underneath me. The sound of an roaring, old engine reaches my ears. I close my eyes again. And again. And again.

My breathing calms down. My body's going numb as someone's dragging it along towards the car. I can't fight back anymore, there's no strength left. Even if I wanted, my feet can no longer carry me. My bike fell over, so it seems, yet my eyes trick me into believing it's floating around across the ground. Clouds trouble my sight. The traffic light, the cat, the trees along the road have all disappeared. I just feel so incredibly sleepy. Maybe if I just ... If I just close my eyes for a second. Then it'll be over.

* * *

As I slowly wake up, a headache takes over my entire thinking ability. My mind's all blurry as my muscles can't seem to move. The tiles I'm on feel cold and they smell. I don't know where I am. I don't even remember what happened. It feels like I'm hungover.

An exhausting feeling of dizziness disturbs my orientation as I take a careful look around. When I finally try to lift my arm to pet my hurting head, something stops me abruptly. A deep sigh precedes the turning of my head in the direction of my hands. There's something holding me back. The blurriness finally seems to disappear after a couple of blinks and a strange image takes its form. A rope. There's a brown, thick rope attached to me. Someone tied me up. I track down the fabric until it reaches a metal pin in the wall.

_What the hell happened to me? I was on my way home. The lights. They were red. _

Reality strikes me again. My eyes widen immensely and the panic I felt before has now returned. What happened? Where am I? Who did this to me?

My slack body crawls on its knees. It's the best I can do for now.

I start panicking like hell once I gather that I've been kidnapped, there's simply no other explanation. That thought scares me so tremendously that I instantly burst out into tears. Why would anyone ever take me with them?

As I try to orientate a little more, the terrible state of the room I'm in starts to dawn on me. This must be some sort of deserted room in a basement. Flaking, white walls close in on me. No window to be seen. This place can't be bigger than an everyday sleeping room. The smell is terrible, like someone's been peeing her for years and nobody ever cleaned up. The piles of dust and spider webs are the decoration of this dumb hole.

My stomach turns and turns until the nausea hits me. Damn, my mind's still so blurry. In a shy attempt to escape, I yank the rope faintly, but nothing happens. Nothing will, even once I regain my full strength. It's clear that this has been thought through by whoever did this. I'm not just attached to some random pin bashed into the wall of an abandoned room. No, this was designed to keep someone from getting out of this room. I get up on my waddling feet and squeeze my eyes shut as I hope that this headache will go away. All I can do is squeeze my eyes and sigh deeply in pain. My hair comes falling down my face. It's messy - even though I just washed it after practice. Another inspecting look around. Only one door. It's made from metal and there are three bars forming a see-through window in the upper part of it. Nobody gets out through there from the inside. But even if I wasn't too afraid to go and check it out, the rope wouldn't allow me to. It's so short that I can barely stand up without having to bend over. I tell myself to calm down a little bit. Freaking out won't do any good. But the feeling overwhelms me anyway. _God, this can't be happening. It's simply not fair._

My sweats are all dirty, like I've been dragged through the mud. My knees feel sore.

As the eternal lasting minutes pass, I try multiple times to untie the rope. But time after time, I get reminded that I'm too weak. Rough attempts alternate the well thought-out ones. I start to cry a little bit louder with every one that fails, since every second that passes means there's a bigger chance that the stranger who took me with him will appear. But I'm not a quitter, so I simply start over again, as soon as I've picked up the little pieces of courage and hope that are left. I _have_ to get out of here. I _need_ to go home.

A deep gasp freezes me up: my dad's birthday dinner. I remember.

My mom. My mom's going to be so mad for not coming home. I promised her that I would be there on time.

I promised.

* * *

_**Liked it? Let me know.**_


	2. The girl with the soft smile

**The girl with the soft smile**

* * *

The door opens with a horrid shriek. My still weakened body immediately brushes up against the wall in an attempt to disappear and remain inconspicuous. I must have been here for hours. I can't remember looking at my watch once since I woke up in this basement. It's all been too blurry and scary to even think of it. Something tells me I've fallen back asleep a while ago, but I'm not sure. Now all I know is that I've tried hundred of times to liberate myself, but all I ended up with were sore hands and bruises around my wrists. And my head nearly bursts off my body with pain.

I paid attention to familiar sounds during my clear moments, like passing cars or barking dogs. Maybe even a train in the distance. But nothing happened, there was not a single thing to be heard, except for my own breathing. And that, let me tell you, is deafening to absorb in a room where there's only silence.

And now that door is open, and I'm too afraid to open my eyes. In my imagination, I've vanished and whoever will walk into this room, will stumble upon an empty place. I can be quiet enough to convince someone I'm gone.

My breathing has stopped, maybe my heart too. I am crying, though. I can't seem to stop crying.

Suddenly, there's the sound of light-footed steps that shifts the entire energy in this room. They stop, as every possible worst case scenario rushes through my mind. It's a guy with an axe. It must be. Or a muscled ex-con that finally wants to live out his murdering wish. What about a psychopath, ready for his tenth religious murder this year? Or maybe I'm facing a hideous rapist.

As all the possibilities cross my mind, I suddenly realize that some time has passed, and nobody has grabbed me to brutally murder me yet. I'm terribly afraid, but after some inner discussion with the rational part of my brain, I manage to carefully open up one eye in fear. This is the most terrifying thing I've ever done. I forget to breathe.

But what I'm seeing completely startles me. There's no muscled ex-con. Not even a tattooed mafia boss with a golden ring around his middle finger and a secret obsession with The Godfather. All there is to see is a slim, blond girl. She looks a bit like Quinn. Her hair is long and tied up in a ponytail. She must be my age. While smiling softly and nervously, she's just standing there, arms held behind her back, patiently waiting for me to relax a little more. My tied up hands are still pressed against the wall, just like the rest of my body. Seeing her makes it easier, though. I'm pretty sure I'm able to knock her over if she tries to get closer to me.

Both of my eyes are open now and I've found a breathing pace again. What is going on here?

"Hi." she softly utters.

I frown in all of my confusion._ What the ... ?_

Her voice is kind of deep, but it suits her. I can't come up with anything that won't come out in a panicking way. She couldn't have been the one that dragged me off my bike. She's just too fragile, too small. I kicked the living shit out of the knees of my opponent. She seems fine as she waits there.

She takes a step towards me, and even though there's not an inch left between the wall and me, I manage to absorb into it even more. The rope around my wrists starts to hurt again. The mysterious girl realizes just how afraid I am, so she holds up her hands and tells me to calm down - in a soft voice.

"I won't hurt you." she promises. "I'm here to meet you."

"Meet me?" my trembling voice asks.

She nods innocently and in that exact moment, I discover how unaware she is of the complexity of this situation. I swear, it's like she's meeting a friend for the first time, and me being tied up to the wall means nothing at all. It's just a formality.

"I'm Brittany," she introduces herself.

Tears are still rolling down my face, but I'm not actually crying anymore. I refuse to answer, though. _What is this shit?_ She looks around and bites her lower lip in anticipation. This girl's weird. Fascinatingly weird, that is.

"Will you please let me go?" I ultimately beg in a whispering tone as I hold up my sore hands to her. The rope's so tight. It cuts through the flesh. There's blood everywhere.

She shakes her head apologetically: "I'm sorry, he told me not to. But he _did_ tell me to settle you in."

"Settle me in?"

"Yes. Tell you about how it's going to be."

Her words come easy.

I nod with confusion: "Going to be ..."

This conversation is one-sided. All I do is repeat everything she tells me. But her riddles don't make any sense. Nothing about this does.

"There's a few rules I need to tell you. Like, how you need to be quiet while you're here. He doesn't like a lot of noise."

"He?"

"John. His name is John. He's the one that found you."

I frown offendedly as soon as she says it: "That asshole didn't _find_ me. He _kidnapped_ me."

She shakes her head nervously when she recognizes the verb and puts one finger to her lips.

"Please. Don't say that word ever again. He doesn't like it."

It seems like this John creep doesn't like too many things.

"What _does_ he like?" I ask in a surrendering way.

Talking to her comes easy. I'm not even that scared anymore.

"Silence. Obedience. And metal." she informs me, as if she has summed up the words a thousand times before.

My back loses contact with the wall behind it for the first time in minutes.

"Metal?" I smirk sarcastically, reminded of the pin the rope's attached to and the door that's keeping me hidden from the world outside.

She nods: "The music."

I breathe in heavily: "Oh."

Another silence takes over the space we're in. Glass could break right now and we'd still hear nothing. I need to get out of here. I need to go home. That's all I can think of.

It's early in the morning. Six a.m., actually. I finally peeked at my watch. My dad's probably at work right now. But why is this girl even awake at this hour? The oversized clothes hanging around her fragile, yet muscled body aren't meant for her. They look like leftovers, found somewhere in a dumpster. She's not even wearing shoes. Come to think of it: she has funny toes.

My feet waddle around like a drunk person. Everything about my nervousness makes her feel uncomfortable. I can tell. It's not her fault that I'm here. It's not her fault that I've been kidnapped. But what part in this whole thing _does_ she have?

"Why are you here?" I ask courageously, as my curiosity finally kicks in and tops the fear.

She puts one foot in front of the other to rub the floor and shrugs like the innocent girl that she seems to be.

"I've been here as long as I can remember. John takes care of me."

I frown with confusion: "You're his daughter?"

A soft smile flashes my way. It's too soft to display actual happiness.

"No. He found me when I was eight. My parents didn't want me anymore, so he took me in. In return, I welcome the girls that come here."

"The girls? There've been others? Other girls like me, tied up to the wall?"

That sounds too impossible to take in at this exact time. My body starts trembling again, like my heart's about to explode. Somewhere deep inside, I hope they're still around. Any other outcome can't possibly be good.

She nods, like it's a normal thing. I guess, when you don't know any better, it might just be.

"Five, maybe six. They never stay long." she calmly replies, with sadness filling her expression.

At the same time she looks confused, as if she's wondering where these girls go when they leave. Something tells me she never asks.

I blink. Then I blink again, just to make sure I did it once before. A deep sigh forces me to relax. So this asshole kidnaps girls and - then what, murders them when he's sick of them? Oh, God, I can't get a break from the nausea. I need to puke!

I put my arm against my belly and close my eyes for a second to talk myself into calming down. That's when she walks over to me. Her movement scares the hell out of me and I jump to the side, while the rope keeps my arms back from following my body. She feels sorry for me, I can tell. Look at me, the resemblance of a captured wild animal, in contact with a human being for the first time.

"I'm sorry for all of this. John just ... This is who he is. It's never been different. You'll be untied soon, once you adapt."

She's preaching a standard speech. This poor thing doesn't have a clue. I bet she was kidnapped too, and he told her differently.

"I'm so scared." I admit.

It's the first time I've ever said words like that. Desperation is taking over. I can't handle this. I can't handle being brutally murdered, or locked up for all eternity. I've read stories about this in the newspaper. They were horrible. People are capable of doing horrible things.

I start crying again, sobbing like crazy, actually. She holds out her hand to me, so very kind and gentle that I let her. What the hell can I do anyway? I'm attached to a rope, I won't get very far. The tips over her fingers caress my dark, messy hair. I didn't realize I'd be so happy to feel sympathetic gestures from someone I've never seen before.

"What's your name?" she asks me again, so silently that it's too soft to call it a whisper.

That's when I break and fall down on my knees. Her body follows me, so that we're face to face. I look at the rope around my wrists and squeeze my eyes, praying for the millionth time that it's all just a bad dream. I want this to be a bad dream so badly. All I want to do is go home, and crawl into my mother's warm and loving embrace. I miss the brutality that my Abuela handles me with when she commands me to be a though girl. And my dad, he's been so absent all my life - busy with work - yet whenever we spent time together, it was intense and pure. Oh, God. And Quinn. I even miss that vicious bitch of a best friend.

But reality is: there's no one else but her in this place. And that's clearly dawning.

"Santana." I nearly choke after telling her. "It's Santana."

My body's shaking, while my knees continue to hurt.

"Hello, Santana." she welcomes me, too genuine and gentle to even be mad at her.

I open my eyes to look up to her. That's when I realize she's got bright blue eyes. And freckles decorating her nose. I feel the tears streaming down my face and that's something she doesn't like. Her index fingers touch the skin under my eyes, and she wipes one away. My cheek's in her hand right now. It feels warm and comfortable. This girl, who is she?

"Now what?"

I need to know. Because if I don't, I'm afraid I'll collapse.

"Now I won't let him hurt you."

She sounds convincing, but still - this situation tells me differently.

A deep sigh overshadows my panic: "Promise?"

Her eyes glare as they pierce into mine. Just when she's about to open her mouth to answer me, the sound of a stranger's footsteps on their way to the room reverberates loudly. However quiet and calm I just was, that all changes the second I come face to face with a man I've never seen before, yet seems way to familiar to be normal.

"Please, don't hurt me!" I immediately beg him as I stay on my knees obediently.

I know it's him. I am certain it's this John figure.

Brittany's hand slips to the tips of my fingers, while her face freezes. In the most subtle way, she's trying to comfort me. The man behind her is surprisingly skinny and ordinary. His hair is short, brown and greasy, while the clothes he's wearing are exceptionally clean. He has a thin scar on his left cheek, which turned pink over the years, like someone once tried to scratch out his eyeball. If it was one of the girls that were here before me, it wouldn't surprise me.

"So, you are awake." he states the obvious.

His voice is raspy and hard. This skinny dude, how is it possible that he kidnapped me? I don't respond in any way. I just sit here, counting my own heartbeats as time passes so slowly. My eyes are focussed on the tips of my fingers. They are trembling like crazy. I'm incredibly afraid - so afraid that he'll hurt me. But the man just stands there. He doesn't move a muscle as he orders Brittany to get up on her feet. It's remarkable how quickly she obeys. This girl has been trained for years, anyone can tell. She's not a daughter to him. She's just a slave. Or more like a dog. Her head's bend downwards, like she's not used to looking him in the eye. I wouldn't do that either, he carries a death scare that reaches every fiber in your body.

"Go upstairs and start preparing dinner. I will eat at six."

Calm and strict. That seems to be the way he talks.

Brittany nods, that's all she does before she starts walking away from me. And that exact thing scares the hell out of me. If there's anything that made me feel even a little bit less panicking, it was her presence. And now that's gone as well. I'm left here with this creep.

"What are you going to do to me?"

It's not like I want to know the answer, it's just that I need to ask. Because not knowing scares me even more. Truth is he's probably capable of doing terrible things to me. Expecting the worst will bring me the furthest, I gather.

The man, John, paces up and down as I'm just kneeling in front of him.

"Brittany will bring you some food in a while. And a bucket. You stay here until I know for sure that you won't try anything that will make me want to hurt you."

His tone is soft and controlled, like it's a well-prepared speech that has been repeated a lot of times in this room. Yet, it sounds so threatening that every fiber in my body shivers instantly. Even though I haven't eaten in a long time, I'm not hungry. I don't want food from this man. He might poison me, or drug me again. My head's still spinning from before.

"I just want to go home." I finally whisper with desperation that fills my heart.

And as I say it, I start to sob like a little child. Home. Oh, I wish I was home.

"I'm afraid that's not possible. You're staying here for a while."

"A while?" I repeat.

His words scare me. Is he going to kill me after a couple of weeks?

My fingers are still shaking. He notices.

"Once here, you can never return, girl. I have plans for you."

I sigh nervously: "My dad has money. He can …"

"No." he abruptly stops me.

A swallow calms my nerves for a second. After that, I'm back to full blown panic.

"Are you going to kill me?" I ask surprisingly resentful.

He shakes his head, while smirking. His eyes inspect the body in front of him. It seems to excite whatever he's seeing. I wish he'd stop staring at me like that.

"You're not of any use to me dead, girl. What's your name?"

I refuse to answer. My hands are in my lap, kneading the flesh of my thighs. I put up a fight, but it's the scariest thing I've ever done. I don't have any control in this situation, not even the slightest, littlest bit. Sure, I refuse to answer him, but where is this going to get me? Tied up on a rope, it can't get much better.

"Fine. No name. It doesn't matter. You won't be here that long to call you anything anyway." his calm words let me know.

It's like he really doesn't care. A lost tear rolls over my cheek. I look up to him and frown my confusion away, to let him know I'm angry at him. That's his cue to leave. He just steps back and slams the door on his way out. The massive, metal door deafens me for a second. A shrieking sound lets me know there's a massive bar locking the only way out.

And then it happens: I'm alone again. My body crawls into a fetal position, to seek comfort. The floor is hard, and cold, but what do I care? I don't care about anything that happens to me anymore. I just want to get away from here.

* * *

_**So, it's a bit of a weird fanfic, I'm aware, but I hope you like it ;) Will update soon ...**_


	3. My new life

_Good news is: I finished the story already, so I'll be able to upload the chapter rather fast._

_Which, of course, is fun for a follower - I've been there, guys! ;)_

_Enjoy!_

* * *

**My new life**

* * *

Brittany came to bring me food later that night. And a bucket to pee in, which didn't bother me as much as I thought. Unlike expected, I was starving by the time she walked in. Being bored out of your mind does that to you. My fingernails had carved my name into the crumbling paint on the wall. It was the only thing to keep me mildly entertained.

She made pasta, mixed with sausages and vegetables. It was a weird combination, but I liked it anyway. At first, I didn't even want to taste whatever she offered me. There could've been some drugs stuffed in the sauce. Or maybe worse. But she stood by me for a half an hour, so very patiently that it surprised me. Then she sat down on the ground and grabbed the wooden spoon to treat herself with a taste. It was to prove to me that there was nothing wrong with the food. Except it gotten cold.

"Bit too much salt, but that's okay. John likes salt." she stated.

That's when I took the spoon from her offering hand. My hands were still tied together, but I managed to eat decently anyway. When one's hungry, any method will do.

"You do everything to please him?" I sighed exhausted, while stuffing my mouth full with food.

It took her a while to think about that. Eventually, she nodded. I guess nothing else mattered to her. She didn't know any better.

"Will he hurt me?" I asked, accidentally spitting out some parts of the pasta.

She watched me eat as she sat a couple of inches away from me. The lack of reaction made me look up. The scary thing was that, maybe, she didn't remember what hurting meant. Like she said, she'd been in this house for years. God knows what he had already done to her.

"I don't think he will. He hasn't hurt me anymore. Not in a long time, anyway."

"Because you do as he says."

She nodded, completely oblivious about how crazy that proved to be. But confusion _and_ anger _and_ fright suddenly all hit me at once. I didn't understand anything about this whole situation.

"Why are we here? What did we do to deserve this? I mean, I never thought that ... What is this shit?" I started crying.

I threw down the spoon and covered my eyes. Brittany sighed deeply and cleared her throat, not really knowing how to respond.

"I don't think this is shit." she softly uttered in a faint attempt to calm me down. "This is my home."

I looked up to her and realized I was giving crap about the one thing she knew best: this house, this way of living. The innocence in her eyes almost made me feel sorry for her.

"Things will get better, Santana. I promise."

Her desperate strike to cheer me up warmed my heart for a second, because I could tell she actually meant it. But she didn't realize that nothing about this was in the range of anything between average and good.

"Do you want a pillow to sleep tonight?" she asked.

"I'd rather have a hotel room in town with room service and Netflix."

My sighing, yet sarcastic response made her smile. At least I stopped crying by that time. Hell, I even managed to pick up some of my bitchiness. She had no idea what I was talking about, though. She quickly informed me she'd never been in a hotel in her whole life. Only by watching movies, she knew what they looked like. That didn't really surprise me. It's not exactly a place where one brings his teenage abducted semi-child, is it?

After thinking about my level of sarcasm, she rested her head on her fist: "You're weird. I like you."

"_You_ are weird, Brittany." I disagreed with her, slightly offended.

And she had no idea. She didn't seem to mind my comment. The girl just sat there, covered in an oversized hoodie and some black pajama pants. Her hair was pulled together in a ponytail, surprisingly neat. Nothing about this appeared to be strange to her. I guess she was overly excited that someone was finally here, to talk to her. The way she fascinatingly stared at me gave it away.

"But I like you, too." I admitted, actually genuine.

She stayed for another hour by my side, as she asked me a lot of questions, but I wasn't sure if she'd blab about them to that John guy, so I barely answered a few. She didn't mind. Maybe to her, I was just being shy. My body was exhausted by the time I finished the plate. Exhausted from crying, from yelling, from trying to get out of this rope's grip. All I ended up with was fainted hope and the realization that there was no way to run.

* * *

By the time a week had passed, John visited the basement a couple more times. It always took him some minutes before he got bored and locked the door behind him on his way out. I quickly gathered he didn't intend to rape me. Not right now, that was. Maybe he would change his mind soon. But I was filthy. I was incredibly filthy and I had a bad smell. It was disgusting to be in this room by myself, still wearing the same clothes, not have had a bath in days, not haven't been able to touch a peppermint in ages. After the first night, Brittany brought me a mattress and a pillow. They smelt bad, but so did I and I accepted every level of comfort I could get. Brittany gave me a blanket on the third day, because she worried that I might be too cold at night. I was - the basement wasn't exactly heated or anything.

Brittany didn't seem to mind my lack of hygiene, apparently, since she spent most of her days next to me. She liked having me here, she said. It was the truth. After a week, she convinced John to loosen my rope. He got me a longer one, and while he changed it, he warned me that if I would dare to make a move, he'd tie my feet up as well. That skinny guy was a first class creep. Something in his eyes told me how messed up he was. Sociopath kind of messed up. My position taught me that obedience was my best shot.

"Brittany will explain the rules to you once again. Then, you might be able to walk around a bit." he said that evening.

In his mind, it was an act of kindness. But he wasn't kind at all. A day later, when I was sick and tired of going crazy in his dungeon, I briefly got rude to him and called him an asshole for doing this to me. In return, he kicked me so hard against my legs that they were sore for four days. The pain it caused was like never before. I cried out for help, but nobody was _there_ to help me. When Brittany sneaked into the basement that night, her eyes almost popped out of her head when she witnessed the bruises and the blood. She told me John was asleep, so she ran upstairs to grab a couple of self-aid instruments to clean me up. It didn't seem to bother her that John might find out and hurt her as well. She was used to it, I guess.

While she dabbed my bleeding knee to disinfect the open wound, I studied her movements and the way she bit her lower lip whenever she expected it would hurt me. But she didn't hurt me at all. She was gentle and careful. She was compassionate and sweet. That's when I started crying again. I hadn't cried in three days. Not even as he kicked the living shit out of me. But seeing her care about me made me soft and weak, because it reminded me how much I gave up on caring. I felt numb and invisible. She, however, pointed out that I still existed. How did a monster raise such a beautiful person?

"What happens to the girls that disappear from here after a while?"

My curiosity took over my fear of knowing. Nursing Brittany looked me in the eyes and sighed defeated.

"I don't know. There's a man. He takes the girls with him after a while. He gives John money. All I know is that the girls never come back. But he does, to get new ones."

So, human trafficking? Sex slaves industry? Something about it didn't even bothered me a much as it should've, sadly. My hope to get out of here unharmed had faded by then, and a desperate need of acceptance had found its way into my mind. Like, there was nothing I could do about anything he'd do to me, so why would I even worry about it anymore. Being locked up made me give up. She didn't understand, because she couldn't remember that happened to her many, many years before.

* * *

By the time he untied my hands completely, a month had passed. My wrists were so sore that the skin started peeling off. They hurt so badly that even Brittany's worrying, midnight care didn't release me from the pain. My muscles were cramped and the first time I opened my arms widely, I thought I was eighty years old. The worst thing was the lack of sensation in my butt: it felt numb from all the hours I sat down on it.

I had nowhere to go for weeks - literally - and there was no one to talk to except Brittany. My own thoughts and mind were driving me crazy. The silence in the basement was deafening. There was hardly anything left of the old Santana, except the last part of my stubborn attitude. I refused to talk to John, no matter how many times he asked me the same questions. And I was convinced it wasn't even his real name. He, too, thought I was too difficult to crack. It's like he hardly made an effort, except for kicking and slapping me until the blood gushed out of my skin on a regular basis. He liked that a lot, to see me cry and hurt. That's the only way he could hurt me, he gathered. He was right. I surprisingly kept on challenging him. My mother's stubborn nature passed onto me. John learned.

Luckily, the innocent, unknowing girl with the freckles seemed to like me. She kept a close eye on my presence, like she wanted to know for sure that I was fine. She knew John did all those things to me, and nothing about that felt good to her, but there was nothing she could do, except take care of me when John was out for work or when he was asleep. I liked that. Because I really wanted to like _something_ - and Brittany was so, so very easy to like. She had taught me _the_ _rules_ on moments when we were left alone at the house. John didn't like a lot of noise. He didn't like when we were disobedient. He enjoyed peace and quiet, just like he enjoyed a night out, knowing that Brittany and I couldn't run off. Brittany was never allowed to leave the house, so she didn't. Whenever he left, he locked the door with so many keys that trying to get out would be a waste of time, she told me. The furthest she had gotten was the garden, and the field where John had planted lettuce and carrots. She kept an eye on the crops, as they grew, as they were ready be harvested. In fact, the young blonde did everything for him. She cooked, she cleaned, she washed, she kept an eye on me, ... I listened to her stories and pretended they weren't happening right in front of me. It was easier to believe that it all was just a fantasy - and on one warm, summer day, I'd wake up from this nightmare.

John did nothing, except insult us, or beat me up or yell at Brittany when she protested. He kept repeating how he was close to finding me a new 'owner'. _Owner_, such a disgusting word. But, more time had passed, and eventually, there was nothing left of that strong, determined Santana someone might have known a while ago and I finally stopped putting up a fight consistently.

"So what now?"

"Now you can go wherever I go." Brittany whispered the first time she opened the door while I was being set _free_.

It didn't feel that way. Truth is, I could have run. I could have whacked her over the head and took a courageous leap at freedom, but there's no way to describe how awfully scary that sounded. John had this thing, you see, where he would walk into the basement every single night to paint the picture of the things that were way behind me. My mom stopped searching for me and focussed on teaching again, he said. Without me, she finally found some time to help others, people that were more grateful than a sarcastic bitch like me. My dad never had so many patients once my disappearance went public, so the money just came flying in, according to him. And, finally, my grandma found happiness in taking care of foster children, now that I was gone. They were all better off now that I had vanished from their lives. The first couple of days, I spit him in the face as soon as he started talking that shit. That's when he'd hit me hard, or kick me in the stomach. After a week, some words didn't seem so unbelievable anymore. I mean, I did behave like a bitch the last couple of years. Puberty and popularity did that to me. Honestly, I couldn't remember the last time I told my family I loved them. Maybe they didn't realize it. Maybe they thought I ran off. Two months of his lectures had passed and I started proving John right: I wouldn't search for myself if I was lost, either. I was a horrible person and John clearly agreed. He started threatening how he'd get rid of me as well, because 'no one could live with a person like me'. He swore he didn't want me around the house anymore, because I was whiny and dull and stupid. Such a regret to have taken me with him, he said.

Funny thing is, you might fight it at first, but the more someone repeats the same story, the more of a stigma it becomes - you actually start believing it. And since there was no other voice of reason, no one to prove him wrong, I gave up on trying.

And so the moment was there, the moment where anything could've happened. The door was open. The possibility was there. But I chose to stay close to Brittany and hold her soft, warm hand. She was the most comforting thing around, and I didn't dare to give that up. It was all I had left. For a second, I refused to leave the basement I had loathed for so many lonely hours, because it was the safest place I could remember. That old house I used to live in felt so very far away. Every second that had dragged me along while I was locked inside this one, had felt like an hour, while the memory of my past seemed like a hasty dream.

John did this to me, but it felt okay. Because despite everything, he made this feel alright by giving me the sweet Brittany.

"Are you going to stay close to me?" I nearly begged her, while squeezing our hands together tightly.

She nodded and showed a faint smile: "Of course. I won't leave your side. Okay?"

It felt like a hopeful promise. Because it was better than another lonely night in that rotten room.

* * *

For now, I'm spending most of my hours in the kitchen. We cook for John, while he's out for work. Judging by the clothes he's wearing, he must be some kind of handyman. His trousers are always dirty and worn out. Brittany washes them as soon as he comes home, that's sort of a routine. Then he puts on his clean clothes. She never looks him in the eye, except when he gets mad. He then grabs her by the chin and forces her to make eye contact. It was stunning to learn that she never really feels anxious when he threatens to slap her. Truth is, he never actually does. Me, on the other hand, I'm somewhat his training puppy who gets the regular amount of physical punishment. A Santana Lopez is a rare breed. It's someone who had never shut her mouth before, who always had an answer, and who always refused to keep quiet. It are all the things John hates, so he decided to break off my rude and sarcastic talents day by day.

My cheerleading sweats are replaced by some dull, brown clothes. As much as I provoked people in the past by wearing short skirts and tight tops, my figure is now faded and all there's left of me are some bones and faint muscles, hiding under a pile of smelly fabrics. Brittany doesn't seem to mind wearing these rags. I guess she never experienced the importance of fashion while growing up here. Given, there _are_ other things to distract you when you've been held from childhood.

"Fuck!" I swear, as I drop the knife I was holding with my finger's blood on it.

Brittany, on my right, looks up to me and frowns deeply: "Oh, Santana. That wasn't really smart."

_Really? _Sometimes she's rather oblivious.

Compassion doesn't come naturally to her, but since I'm here, she has told me that she feels the need to take care of me. I soften her up, apparently. That's a first.

Her rough fingers take the bleeding hand and pulls it under the rusty, old crane to my left. This is such an old house. The paint on the walls peels off, the kitchen cabinets stand askew, the cutlery hasn't been used for ages. For a handyman, he sure doesn't put a lot of effort into his own place.

I'm afraid to wonder how many girls like me have eaten in this same room. Then again, Brittany let it slip that the others never left the basement. That makes me the only one, apart from her. I wonder why. It doesn't make sense. None of this makes any sense.

"Why does he keep us here?" I ask, while turning my eyes away from the blood.

It stings. As if I'm not decorated enough with bandaids, she gets me a new one in the cabinet to our left.

"What do you mean?" she calmly counters my question, a bit uninterested.

Her hands scrambles through some stuff behind a wooden door. I look up to her and wait until her stare catches mine.

"You've been here ever since you were a little kid. And me ... I thought he was going to find me a new owner or something."

His words still don't make a lot of sense to me, but he keeps repeating them, so I guess he's pretty serious about it. She shrugs and I can tell she actually has no clue. This girl's been kept in the dark for too long, in all the ways possible. Her feet bring her near me again.

"There must be something about you that convinces him to keep you close."

Probably not my charming personality? She almost seems to flatter me with the words. Like I'm worth having around.

"Besides, I asked him to let you be my friend in here. I like having someone around and I'm afraid that if he does _sell_ you ... something bad will happen to you."

Like being here isn't bad. But sweet, gentle and innocent Brittany warms my heart with her declaration. She really does need a friend. And in her own way, she's trying to protect me. I can't imagine what it must have been like, growing up with a sociopath, and no one else to talk to. She puts the band-aid around my fingers and caresses the fabric softly.

"There. All better."

She likes to pretend that a little sticker takes my pain away. I play along.

I put my pampered hand on hers and smile the faintest of smiles: "Don't worry. You have a friend now. It'll be okay."

Worst promise ever.


	4. Living with John

**Living with John**

* * *

Days became nights. They then turned into weeks. Slowly, I lost track of time. John had taken away my watch after a couple of days. The more I felt lost, the less I'd try to do anything stupid, he gathered. Nothing indicated that I'd get out of here soon. I had started calling this house a fortress. During the nights when John locked me up in the basement, I tried to remember every single door and window I had seen of the rooms I was allowed to walk through. There was the outdated kitchen with a six seater table. It had a door and two small windows. They were secured with iron bars and key locks. And darkened. He never left them unlocked, not even accidentally. Brittany's ten year long stay in this house probably learned him to never forget. The living room had two big windows and a door that led to the kitchen and another one to the hallway. Same story. They were locked and it was unable to see through them. The furniture was surprisingly refreshing and modern. He had a big flatscreen and a Playstation. We weren't allowed to touch it.

The hallway kept the front door as my mysterious obsession. It had three key locks and two padlocks to make sure we remain inside. John kept all the keys in his pocket. Brittany explained it all to me. John had taught her to stay put in the kitchen - the room that was the least close to the hallway - whenever he would leave the house. And when someone visited, the first reflex she had was to hide in the basement and stay quiet. That never happened, though. I simply did whatever she did. The innocent girl told me making a sound or crying for help wouldn't make a difference when another person was there. Nobody was to be heard from inside the basement. It was sound proof. The first and only time she ever dared to make a sound, she apologized accidentally, since she thought he might've heard her. He smacked her over the head with a tray. She never did it again.

I might put up a fight occasionally, but I've learned my place in the hierarchy in this house already. John is the alfa man. He's ridiculously demanding and unreasonable and - oh, yeah - a kidnapper, and he rules this house with an iron fist. Whenever you disobey, that exact same fist comes your way to smack you in the face. I can't count the number of bruises that have already faded from my skin. My exhausted body hurts with every step I take. I'm tough to break, he's found out. But that won't stop him from trying. I don't know why he hasn't _sold_ me yet, like those so called others. I get that Brittany loves to keep me around, but … is it that simple? She couldn't mean enough to him to actually listen, right? At least, that's what I think. Maybe the way he's handling her is his disturbing way of caring. He doesn't hit her - not anymore at least. He treats her like a kid and bosses her around all the time. But there are times when he stares at her while she's cleaning or cooking. And then there's a faint smile to be seen. He's grown to like her. He did raise her after all. Fucked up as hell, but he did it anyway.

* * *

"Stop being so rude to him, Santana. It won't do you any good." she tells me silently as we're lying next to each other.

I got promoted from that dirty mattress in the basement to Brittany's room on the first floor. She has a kingsize bed with soft pillows and warm blankets. Not as fancy as it sounds, though. I'm her plus one now - I can sleep in her bed. There's a next-door bathroom with a bathtub and a sink. Not very modern, but it's clean and well taken care of. I can finally pee on a toilet now. It's more than I ever expected to find here. We share a closet, but don't have many clothes to keep. Most of the things I'm wearing are Brittany's. I've lost so much weight that we're practically the same size now. Size 'kidnapped'. My cheerleading sweats are long gone.

John's room is across the modernized hallway - one thing he did put an effort in. The room has dark wallpaper and darkened windows. My raging nerves tell me to stay away from there as much as humanly possible. When he goes to bed, he locks us up in our room. We need to wait until he wakes up in the morning. But I don't mind. As long as he leaves us alone, it's fine by me.

As I cough silently, my body turns around to face her. She's lying on one arm, studying the way I move. Her look is caring and sad. She's worried something bad might happen to me. My black eye and bruised legs assure me that there's not much space for worse.

"It's just who I am, Brittany." I whisper.

And it's the truth. I can't help it, not even after all this time. Sure, John's toned me down a lot. Just like this girl right next to me, my eyes search for the tiles on the floor whenever I'm addressed. When he approaches me, I freeze up. And I haven't tried to escape or hurt him. Trust me, I thought about it. But you don't dare with John. Nobody does.

Only once in a while, I'm reminded of my bike rides to school and the way the wind would play with my hair. I'm reminded of Quinn and her sassy comments about her boyfriends. I'm reminded of how simple and stupid my _important_ high school life seemed. Popularity was the _highest high_. Cheerleading practice was _hard_ _work_. Santana Diaz was on top, you know. It all seemed to matter. I had no idea.

"Try. For me. I don't want him to hurt you anymore."

Her fingers linger over my hurting skin. As a way to get her to stop talking, because I'm just too tired to speak, I nod. And I promise.

My eyes close and I'm halfway to dreamland when some fragments of my old life flash in front of my eyes. They haunt me.

"We need to get out of here, someway, somehow." I silently mumble.

I want that familiarity back. Everything that was so boring and dull. It sounds so exciting to me now. She shakes her head calmly and discouraging.

"You know you can't. We can't. There's no way out. There's never been."

"There's the front door." I suggest.

She nearly crawls on top of me and lays a finger on my lips: "He'll kill you for trying."

I feel her skin, sticking on mine. Her sudden reaction startled me completely. I hold my breath as I progress her behavior. The fragile eyes break through the darkness of the night. It's fear, I recognize it. Her voice is shaking, as are her hands.

"Please, don't do it. Please, don't ever try." she begs full of desperation. "You can't leave me here alone."

I'm her only friend. And frankly, she's mine. Brittany is what keeps me going. Every time I am even close to exploding, my eyes wander to the beautiful blonde who's always by my side. And it calms me down. She makes sure I don't do anything stupid - so John won't have to do anything stupid.

"Look, Brittany. Let's get some sleep. We need to get up early tomorrow. Okay?"

She's still on top of me, but I don't get any reaction. I feel her heartbeat trembling on my skin. Her blond locks swirl over my face. My fingers put them behind her ears. I raise my head from the pillow and kiss her comfortingly on the cheek. That's when she finally closes her eyes. I feel a tear dripping along my skin. She's crying.

"Come." I suggest, while opening my arms widely.

She lies down beside me and crawls in my embrace. The fabric of her worn out pajamas press up against my body. It's sheltering. My left arm wraps around her shoulder, while she vanishes even more into me. Then, we sleep.

* * *

The first step I take outside crushes me with overwhelming feelings. I've dreamt of this day. The day when I'd feel fresh air on my skin again. Must have been months. My knees are weak and I need to pinch my eyes in order to be able to face the sunlight. God, I had no idea how much I missed this.

There are trees. Grass underneath my bare feet. I see birds and rabbits in a far distance. Somehow, I can't shake the thought that I must be dreaming. Except I'm not. I'm awake - and I'm out of that dark, smelly fortress.

Brittany is standing next to me, carrying a bucket of gardening tools. She talked John into letting me out for a few minutes.

"It won't be long." she promised him. "Just to check on the vegetables."

He had circled around me for five minutes, hands behind his back, viciously staring at me with his scary eyes. That whole time, mine were focussed on the floor - praying he wouldn't kill us for even suggesting something like a simple walk in the garden. John didn't talk, no, he ordered and commanded, so I just stood there and listened. We had no idea how a question might be welcomed.

Lucky for me, I had Brittany. She's his surrogate daughter, his trust person. A second before he took his decision, he stopped circling in front of me. One short mention of my name was enough to make me look up instantly. Brittany taught me that. _Experience_ taught me that. Along with massive bruising and hurting.

No matter how much he frightened me, his scar continued to distract me whenever we were face to face. I learned all the signs of this man being a freak, so how did nobody on the outside ever get a clue?

"The first second you even think about running away, I _will_ find you, Santana. And when I do, staying here won't seem such a bad idea. Do you understand?"

His words lay a tight rope around my neck and forced me to breathe heavily. He wasn't kidding. The three of us knew exactly what he was capable of.

Brittany had told me about the garden. It was nice and big. But as she described it to me in bed at night, I quickly gathered that this house was somewhere in a deserted place. She never saw anyone whenever she worked outdoors.

And now here I am. There's an opportunity to take off and run at this exact moment. Run into the woods around this place. I see them. I see the tall oaks and the widely spread bushes. But I am terrified. _Indescribably_ terrified. What if there is nothing behind these woods? What if after days and days of running away, I'll still find myself in the middle of them? Truth is, I have no idea where I am. Not even the slightest clue. And neither does Brittany.

I feel that rope again. The invisible one that's keeping me close and obedient. One insecure look behind me and there he is: keeping a close eye on us. Sitting on a brown, wooden chair, while his fingers are playing with the ring around his right middle finger.

In my left corner, Brittany has reached the little part of the garden where she grows vegetables. Tomatoes, cucumbers, lettuce, …

I watch her from a safe distance, carefully absorbing her every move. It's warm outside. Must be spring. Yeah, I bet it's spring.

A fresh breeze surprises me as I turn my face towards the sun. It picks up my hair to play around with it for a second. The rags I'm wearing fly up into the air. High above me, some birds are teasing each other while flying.

It's a feeling so random that hardly anyone can describe it. Out of all the things that are taken from me, I'd never knew I could miss this simplicity. Sun and wind - trees and grass - fauna and flora. Most of all: sun and air. Everyone takes it for granted. And here I am, ready to jump into John's arms and thank him for this _massive_ gift.

Brittany's busy poking some potting soil when she suddenly realizes to check up on me. She catches me standing with my arms wide open, facing the sky and all it's glory. There are no clouds today, just birds and bugs. A lost, joyful tear rolls down my face. I can't decide if I'm happy or sad. Maybe it's both.

She gets up from the ground and dusts off her pants before her feet bring her closer to me.

"Are you okay?" she asks curiously.

I lower my head and face the beautiful girl standing next to me. Her hand is on my shoulder, making sure she's right here. A deep sigh leaves my stale lungs and I nod.

"I am. Because of you. Thank you for this, Brittany."

My lips carry a smile, something I can't remember doing for a while. She puts the tips of her left fingers on my uncovered neck, demonstrating some of John's finest work. I shiver, because as soft as she may intend to touch me, it still hurts. He grabbed me by the neck last night, because his shirt wasn't ironed the right way. One solid kick against the back of my right knee brought me to the ground immediately. Afterwards, he made me promise to never do it again. While holding on to my bruised skin to convince myself it didn't hurt so much, I nodded silently. Brittany just stood there, but as I looked over to her, I saw just how angry she was with him. She was ready to burst and scream at him. Luckily, she didn't.

The skin of her thumb carefully strokes the bruise. I put my hand on top of hers and softly smile. We stare each other deep in the eye while everything around us keeps happening. Birds are still flying, the trees are still dancing with the wind. We just don't pay any attention to it. But this is getting way too intimate. One more second and I may dive into one of her warm hugs. I feel it: every fiber in my body tells me to seek her comfort. I disturb the wonderful, familiar feeling by blinking three times in a row while blushing. Afterwards, I take her hand off of me and subtly nod, pointing out John twenty yard tiles behind us. She turns her head to find him bored out of his mind, playing with a can of beer.

"We should go back. He seems irritated." she states.

Brittany knows every little twitch of his personality. When he's mad, she'll know before he does. When he's happy - that rarely happens - she tries to please him in advance in order to refrain him from getting pissed in a second.

Brittany _is_ this house. She is the voice and the energy. John may dictate us, but he'd be nothing without her. She cleans, she cooks, she takes care of me _and_ him at the same time. One time, a long time before I got here, when he got really, really ill, she sat next to his bed for a week. It was easy for her to just steal his keys and walk out the door. I didn't understand when she explained to me that something inexplicable kept her here. Now I do. Still can't explain it, but I understand. She loves him. Because he's all she knows.

* * *

"I've read all these books already, Brittany. Got any new ones?"

I still occasionally sound like the spoiled brat I was back at home. My comment makes her laugh, though.

"New ones?" she ridicules me. "Have you seen anything new coming in here since you entered this house?"

I puff and pout as my eyes examine the wall of books in front of me. Not a single one left to discover. That's when I start thinking. The library in my school had countless books.

"I should be in my senior year right now, Brittany. This is the year I'm supposed to graduate. Everyone is: Quinn, Tina, Finn, Mike, Sam, …"

I sigh and smile melancholically.

"Even that ass, Noah Puckerman." I reminisce myself out loud.

_He really was an ass._

My friends. I'll never know how it feels to throw that hideous _baret_ high up in the air with them. I'll definitely won't have to fight Quinn over who gets to star with a self-written commencement speech. I would've nailed that gig easily, to tell you the truth.

Brittany's busy cleaning up the clutter in this living room, but spares a second to have a look at me. John's at work. That's what he told us. But that's okay - it means we're free for a short wile. Well, as free as you can get around here.

"Are you okay, Santana?"

The worry in her voice makes me smile. Such a caring person. He never deserved her. Somehow, I've found peace in being here. Most of the time that is. I realized that sitting on the ground, crying all day won't ever bring me more than some extra bruises. She forgets how strong I am sometimes - and so she does the best she can do: take care of someone.

I reach out my hand to her and that makes her smile. Her cleaning stops and she accepts my invitation to hug it out a bit.

"Of course I'm okay. It's just … I got reminded of it. Quinn will be so freaking pissed that she can't brag about her good grades to me."

Brittany, pressed up warm against me, puts away some of my wandering locks of hair. A silly smile thanks her.

"You really miss her, don't you?"

I shake dreamily: "Who would've thought."

Another melancholic grin covers my face. She's still trying to get my hair back to its correct place. But it's a mess. It hasn't been cut in months. No wonder it won't stay where it's supposed to.

Her soft movements freeze me up. The tension and electricity of her skin stops my breathing. That's when her lips catch my attention. And all I can do is swallow.

"I can cut your hair if you like." she says - and snaps me back to reality.

I immediately start smiling. Now here's the thing: I trust this girl with my life. She's saved me from John countless times, when he was drunk or in a bad mood and I felt like returning him the favor. She'd get in the middle and calm him down - fearless and determined to spare me. She'd tell me to leave the room and get some water or go to bed. Sometimes I'd get mad at her for interfering in my fight - _my_ battle. I'd stamp my foot on the wooden floor, like a little kid and run away from his threats of killing me with his bare hands. But afterwards, I'd just be thankful for the dodged beating he had ready for me.

So, it's clear to say she's my trust person. But cutting my hair? No, way. Nobody touches it. That's stylist material only, no matter how long I'll be here. A ponytail or a bandana, it's all I need for now.

Because one day I _will_ get out of here. And I'm dreaming of sitting in that barber chair, excitingly waiting for that first cut. That first sound of scissors working on a new hairdo.

"No." I state.

I sit down on the old, soft carpet and stare at the wall of books again.

"I never thought I'd like to read this much. It calms me down."

Brittany turns her head to see what I'm talking about. It doesn't take long before she sits down next to me.

"I know what you're saying." she tells me. "I have read all of them as well. They allow you to escape for a brief while, don't they?"

A soundless nod agrees. That's the reason why they interest me so much.

"There's no John, no fortress. There's castles and knights. There are horses and dogs. High school and universities."

As soon as I realize she's staring at me, I turn to face her.

"I like the ones with murder and mystery." she admits.

_Silly girl. _

We lie down on our back and end up staring at each other for a while. All our chores are done. We function well as a team. Ironing, cooking, washing, cleaning. It's all done quickly when you divide the tasks.

"I am happy he brought you to me, Santana." she whispers through the silence.

Unlike everything I've ever said and felt about this house and the circumstances I got stuck in, seeing this beauty next to makes me feel warm and loved. It's like staring at an angel, to be honest. And she takes your breath away, she makes you forget about all the bad things _and_ the good things at once.

"Me, too, Brittany."


	5. Memories are poison

**Memories are poison**

* * *

A typical night used to be my mom yelling at my _Abuela_; their odd, hispanic way of discussing if one Mexican soap opera was better than the other one. My dad would come home late and sit down in his relax chair to watch the late night news. He'd ignore the Spanish babbling. I'd be bored out of my mind, texting on my phone or playing games on my laptop to keep myself busy.

I wish I was there, now. I wish my life was boring again.

A typical night in this house is something else. There's John, playing Playstation games and drinking beers. And then there's us, sitting quietly next to each other. Scared to say something wrong, we just shut up. If he's hungry, one of us gets up to grab him a bite. If he's thirsty, one of us gets him a new beer. Do we disturb during one of his difficult combat levels, he throws a can our way and threatens to kick the living shit out of us. God, I wish his mother had taught him some manners. I remember that I loved watching a TV show called _Castle_ just before I was taken. I'd stare at my television screen and absorb it like it was a weekly religion. I'm not allowed to choose my favorite TV shows anymore. Detective Beckett and Rick Castle would probably find a way to get out of this place. On a whim. I don't. I'm stuck. And now I still don't know if they ended up being a couple.

Brittany and I are not supposed to drink anything else except tab water. That's why I'm holding a large glass in my right hand. One of my fingers circle at the rim, so many times that I forget I'm sitting in this couch. A nostalgically grin takes over my face, just by remembering some of my favorite scenes from that series.

Quinn was a fan as well. We'd text during breaks. My mom would get really nervous over it, since the laughing and shrieking over teenage silliness all took place in the living room, where everyone else was sitting.

And that's how in an instant, my happy memories get replaced by homesick feelings and sadness. I bet my mom's not watching _Castle_. Maybe she's not watching anything anymore. She probably thinks I'm dead. Her only daughter is dead.

A gentle touch shakes me out of my folly. Brittany's looking at me cautiously. Her eyes ask me if there's anything wrong. She knows me well. When you're stuck with each other, you tend to see through one another rather quickly. A silent denial takes place. We better not talk. Not now _he's_ here. The girl next to me frowns deeply and then memorizes the way my middle finger is tapping against the glass. It's making a sound. A somewhat irritating, shrill sound, but I'm doing it unintentionally - still completely absorbed by my past. Memories of my mom and dad take me away from here and I can't shake them off. I remember when my dad taught me how to ride a bike. The first time I fell over, I kicked that crappy thing so hard that he had to tape my foot. No more bike rides for two weeks. Later, he encouraged me so passionately that I turned into a better rider than Quinn. On his days off, we'd hit the roads, simply to discover the city. We both share an embarrassing interest in art and architecture. My mom would wait for us with home baked cookies every single time. Chocolate chip cookies. My favorite. She always knew what my favorite was.

Without realizing, I've started humming a song that she always listened to. Something Spanish. I don't even remember the name or the artist anymore.

John, _surprisingly_ in a bad mood tonight, looks over to me and hisses to shut up. That's when I snap out of my confusion a second time and make a really big mistake. For a second I forgot where I was, which makes me act cluelessly. In that moment, I turn back into the bitchy Santana from high school.

"You shut up!" I answer all agitated, like it comes natural.

It takes a rapid heartbeat before I realize who I'm talking to. _John_. _Shit_.

When I dart to the right, there's Brittany, anxiously and nervously staring in front of her, praying that it never happened. Too afraid to search for the other person in this room, my eyes shut tightly. My heart's racing so fast that my entire body starts shaking. I am afraid. Afraid of what he'll do. Because I know - I know he'll explode and come after me. It's only a matter of time … of seconds, actually.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." I try.

But it's too late. I knew it'd be too late. My eyes are still desperately squeezed shut, but that doesn't stop me from imagining the picture that accompanies the sounds I'm hearing. John rises from his chair without saying a word and stamps the ground with his heavy boots on his way to my seat. His breathing is heavy and unsteady. It means he's furious. Furious that I still manage to fight back, after all this time. He's a time bomb.

"_What_ did you say?" he asks with a raging tone invading his voice.

Before I can emphasize just how genuinely sorry I am, his strong fingers grab the back of my hair. It hurts so bad, so quickly, that I crawl out of the couch to drop on my knees. He has no sympathy at all. This will end bad, I just know it will.

"I'm so sorry." I beg him. "I forgot. For a second, I forgot."

I put my hands on top of his, pleading to let go. But he doesn't. He pulls my hair even harder. Tears are rolling down my cheeks. He starts to move, which scares me even more. Because he'll literally drag me along with him. My body tumbles over, as he takes me to the kitchen. I'm paddling over the floor, vainly trying to get on my feet. But he's too fast, and I'm squirming to reach a position where it'll hurt less. The pain feels like a thousand knives cutting through my hair-line. The worst thing is, I can't stop crying. As soon as I finally open my eyes, there she is: Brittany, hysterically chasing us both. She's begging him to let go of me, but the asshole just threatens to treat her similarly as well.

"You forgot, you say? Forgot about what? Huh?"

His strong arm pulls me up, until I finally manage to regain my balance. I'm standing. At least I'm standing now! But that doesn't retain him from hurting me. His second hand comes crawling around my throat, crushing it. It's hard to breathe while his fingers are shutting off my windpipe from all the air around us. I am so afraid, yet I can't shake the thought of how much of an animal he is. I never deserved this. Brittany never deserved this. My squeaking sounds lack any harmony. Most of it is begging him to let go. But I'm just so mad. I seriously want to kick him so hard between the legs that he will regret it for the rest of his life. Soon enough, I realize: it'll only backfire. His eyes are spitting fire. They look more psychopathic than ever before. He was mad enough before I dared to snap at him. Look what I did now.

My feet follow him every step of the way - in an attempt to get ahead of his movements - desperately hoping it'll temper the pain. I fail. The grip of his hands still feels like torture.

When we reach the back door, he opens it to literally toss me outside like a little piece of garbage. I hit the ground hard, so hard I feel some of my bones cracking. Dirt immediately soils my already unclean clothes. My right shoulder and the entire part of my upper body aches. But my childish, yet heartbreaking moaning brings out no compassion in his vicious insanity. It just irritates him. While facing the cold, muddy ground, I bite my upper lip in pain. Breathing is hard, but at least he let go of me and now I can finally try to work up a solid pace again to regain control over myself.

"John. Please, don't. Don't hurt her."

The voice. It's like a mirage in a distant dream. It's Brittany, pulling his arm back, in an attempt to slow him down. I see it, but it happens in a blur. John's not listening to her, though. The remarkable thing about Brittany is, she's gentle enough to not upset him even more. Just friendly, asking if he'll reconsider, without making him question about hurting her as well. He just pushes her back, tells her to mind her own business and she realizes quickly that nothing will stop him tonight. She has such a spot-on approach when it comes to him. I haven't been here long enough to forget about my life-long normal way of communicating with people, so I keep putting up a fight. She's been captured and manipulated for years - she doesn't know any better. She's the lucky one.

"You said you forgot." he screams aggressively while approaching me slowly. "Explain that to me. Forgot that you are a nobody? Forgot that you should be lucky I haven't killed you yet? Huh?"

He's so full of himself. The more the soreness of my bones and flesh reaches my blurry mind, the more I get upset. How can someone just hurt a person on purpose, all the time, and feel good about it? What kind of masochist is capable of this?

Every single breeze of air that reaches my lungs feels like a gift. But at the same time, it raises my chest up and down, and that's about the most painful experience in the world right now. I am so mad. So freaking mad at this bastard.

"Nothing, Santana? Not a single fucking silly-ass comment left for me?"

He's thrilled to see me like this. Self-confidently, he quickly kicks my feet.

"I hate how you think so little of me, Santana." he admits.

My head turns his way and I spit out some of the dirt that has reached my lips.

"I don't think little of you, John. It's just that you are." I courageously answer with a smirk.

He licks his lips and bends over to me, just to provoke my character.

"I am what, huh?"

He's laughing at me - enjoying just how much I'm hurting. At the same time, he's clearly amused by the amount of resistance I still manage to put up. But this is the point where I no longer care. My hate for this man is so big that it trumps every other feeling.

"You're a complete fucking tyrant. You're a fucking madman." I answer him, completely supporting my choice of words. "You're a pathetic excuse for a man. And you're a freak."

Brittany, standing behind him, closes her eyes completely disappointed in this situation. But I can't help it. I realize that I might rather be dead. That would feel a lot better than this, I suppose. Just let him kill me already.

But by replying, I've signed up for the thing that's much worse. Dead is an easy way out, he won't let me have that. He nods all satisfied by my courageous comment, because this offers him another reason to terrorize me a little more.

The next five minutes are the worst of my life. He kicks and beats me until the blood comes gushing from my mouth. My body turns into his personal punching bag and there's nothing to do but suffer his superiority. It feels as if he's breaking every single bone in my slim, exhausted body. Brittany's screaming and crying a couple of feet away from us. Tears are flowing down her face, but there's nothing she can do to change this. Seconds pass and every fiber in my body goes numb. There's only so much a person can take. Strangely, I do not longer cry. I'm too occupied with feeling all the pulses rushing through my body that it stuns the natural reflex. His vicious eyes ultimately get bored and after what seems like a million years, he lets go of me completely. I drop to the ground and moan in pain. Gasping, unsteady sounds flow out of me. The blood dripping from my face meddles with the dirt underneath me.

"You won't forget anymore." he states, cocksure.

That's when he turns around to re-enter the house. Brittany's frozen up, hands covering her face in desperation. I'm left choking - moaning in pain.

"Take her to your room. I lock the door in five minutes." he tells her.

Again, John doesn't talk _with_ you. He talks _to_ you. He demands.

The second his shadow has disappeared, she comes rushing to me.

"Santana!" she gasps.

She's so worried that her tears screw up her beautiful voice. Her hands touch my back carefully, because she knows it'll hurt to lay a finger on me. She saw it happening, she must realize what agony I'm in. Another gasp for air before I bravely crawl on my feet. The adrenaline and rage are what keep me going.

"What are you doing? Don't move." she orders me.

But I refuse. I need to get out of here. I need to run for my life and disappear forever. It doesn't matter if I get lost in the woods._ I don't care_. My instincts tell me to protect myself. She claws on to me and pulls me back, but even the soreness of every muscle in my body can't be bothered for a second. Unsteady, little steps bring me further down the yard. She follows me hysterically.

"Santana. What are you doing?" she wonders out loud.

There's only one eye to look through. He made sure the other one won't open for a couple of days. But I see trees and the moon anyway. I smell freedom, no matter how far away it may be. However, my body feels her hands, grasping on to me - trying to prevent me from doing something stupid. I slap them away from me, but she's more alive than I am right now. The girl _knows_ what I'm out for. She reads it off my face.

"Stop. Stop it, Santana. You can't do this right now. You can't even walk!"

Her words make sense. Because no matter how determent I was a second ago, my knees already go weak after a dozen of steps. I fall down and hit the ground again. This pain feels way too familiar to be healthy. She puts her hands underneath me to pick me up, with all the worry and compassion filling her heart.

"Let me take you inside."

Her touch. It teases and comforts me. I hate it and love it at once. But I refuse, faintly, by crying with desperation. She strokes my dirty face for comfort as I stare her in the eye.

"If you want to do this, I'll let you." she tells me. "I'll distract him the next time we get the chance and you can do whatever you want. But please, I beg you: don't do it now. He'll find you. You're too weak; he'll find you, no matter how long he'll have to search. And he'll kill you, Santana. He'll murder you."

I let her drag me on my feet again. She's so gentle and careful that it makes me relax. I forget about the pain for a second. I'm just so desperate to get away from here. But I can't. She's right.

As my body dives into her embrace, she wraps her warm arms around me. Our tears meddle, along with the blood and disheartening.

"Next time." she promises. "Now let me take care of you."

That's when my breaking point is reached. I nod with pouting lips. She always does.

As predicted, the door gets locked five minutes later. I am so glad that he's gone. Even though he holds the key to _unlock_ the door, it feels like he can't get to me in here. Not with Brittany right next to me.

I'm crawled up against her, while she has her arms around me. She's soothing me, in an attempt to make me stop crying. But now that some time has passed, the level of pain finally penetrates. However hurt I just felt, it is multiplied by a million right now.

She has her fingers on my face, softly pressing tissues against my bleeding lips. This always happens: she always cleans me up.

"I am sorry." I tell her, panting. "I am so stupid."

She shushes me and strokes my hair. The tissues get taken away. After a few moments, I stretch my body while moaning. Oh, God. This is hell. I am on my back, facing the ceiling. I pinch my unharmed eye, because that might be the smallest chance to smooth the hurting.

It opens again the second her soft, warm lips reach one of my fire-red bruises on my arm. No matter how many painkillers I would take, they wouldn't feel as comforting as that. Her eyes flare up to me and the blueness dazzles my existence. I do not longer cry or blink or move. I just stare at her in wonder, in awe. She moves her head to my shoulder and kisses another red spot. It stings a little, but I don't care. Her hair lingers over my skin.

A loud, deep swallow cuts through the fragile silence. Her eyes! They pierce through me and I have no idea what's happening. She's about to burst into tears, I guess. Just as I'm about to ask her what's wrong, she crawls on top of me and aims for my mouth. Her lips, her soft and pink and warm lips, touch mine and it's startles me completely. I don't know how to react. This never crossed my mind.

She lowers her body down on mine and puts both hands on each side of my face. My body flares up with arousal.

"Brittany!" I gasp as I finally find some breathing space.

It's a faint effort to make her stop.

She doesn't listen. For the first time in her life, Brittany doesn't listen. She presses her lips against mine again and that's when I realize just how great they feel. The careful hands from before find their way down my body. They caress my skin and feel me up like no other boy in my high school life ever has. I enjoy it too much. Too much to be intended platonically. And it's not hurting.

I never thought about kissing her, and yet this feels completely natural. Our movements evolve rather rapidly. Before we both fully understand what the hell we are doing, her hands disappear underneath my shirt. I like it. They touch my boobs and slide along my caramel skin like they did it a hundred times before. I like it. Loud gasps for air reverberate. I follow her lead unconsciously. Her tongue arouses me. It makes me feel things I absolutely let go of a long time ago. The last time I kissed someone, it was Puck, a week before I got kidnapped. It didn't feel like this. It didn't feel this great.

She lowers her head and kisses my uncovered breasts, my collar bone, my stomach. My skin is hers to be tasted. Everything inside of me tingles. It's happening in a blissful blur.

Her index finger forces a way down my panties and I choke the second it touches my most sensitive spot. Her teeth bite my lower lip, which causes me to moan - in pleasure instead of pain this time. I move my no longer hurting body up and down the mattress and force myself to be as quiet as possible. She has her vision pointed at my face, at my reaction. We don't know what's coming over us, but this feels like an apocalypse. Like the earth underneath us is sliding away - vaporizing into thin air. I hold on to her hair tightly as I allow her to do whatever she wants with me. Her fingers orchestrate my body like a perfect symphony. My mind feels blurry, but that's okay. Because I see the look in her eyes and all the hidden fear. And I feel safe. After all what happened tonight, I feel completely safe.

* * *

When I wake up the next morning, I don't actually put the pieces together immediately. All I know is that every breath reminds me of how fragile my body is and just how beat up I am. I groan and moan before my head turns around to find a naked and dreaming Brittany next to me. That's when reality hits me - and it's even harder than John's fist.

I slept with her.

I had sex with Brittany.

My jaw drops, as my upper body rises from the mattress immediately. For a minute, I remain in shock, just thinking over last night.

How did this happen? When did I start … ?

But I can't even finish the sentences in my mind. I get up from the bed, stop halfway to silently curse away the enormous pain I'm experiencing, and collect my clothes as quickly as I can. They're put on in just a second. In a far distance, there are footsteps to be heard. John's awake. I press together my hair in a messy ponytail. My eyes search the bed again, and sneakily observe the way she's sleeping. Her bare back is beautiful. It's perfect, reflecting some early sunlight. And her face, half buried in a pillow, looks so peaceful while she's asleep. She's the prettiest girl I've ever seen. No wonder I slept with her.

Brittany surprises me by yawning and blinking four times in a row before she notices me, standing next to the bed, all nervous and confused. Her naked body turns to its side and with one hand supporting her head, she smiles tenderly.

"Hi." she whispers shyly.

My heart's racing. She looks hot, lying there like that. She even has an after-sex glow. I did this to her. I gave her the glow. _God!_ Well, actually, God has very little to do with this.

"Hi." I stammer, ignorant on how I should act.

She's looking at me, waiting for a further response. But I have nothing to say, actually. I don't even know how I feel about this.

"Are you okay?" she asks, frowning for a second.

She guesses I'm freaked out a bit. Except I'm not: I'm freaked out_ a lot_. The only thing I can come up with, is changing the subject.

"John's up already. He'll come get us soon. You should get dressed." I tell her, doing my best to avoid her look.

I feel embarrassed, but not because of what happened. Or maybe I do. Honestly, I don't know how I _should_ feel exactly. I just know that I want John to get me out of here. Because being locked up with your my feelings without a way out - that's the worst thing ever.


	6. Winter's cold

_I have an announcement to make:_

_I'm going on a holiday to Mexico. Departure? Tonight._

_So I thought I'd quickly upload another chapter. Probably won't be able to upload for the next 9 days._

_So here it is, and it happens to be a good one. Let me know what you think of it?_

* * *

**Winter's cold**

* * *

We've been actively trying to avoid each other's curious stares and almost attempts to speak with each other. We fail terribly. I like her. A little bit too much.

John's been home a lot lately. Seems like it isn't working out well at his job. Could it be his personality? More frustrated and annoyed than ever, he's determined to treat us even more as house slaves. After the massive beating, he doesn't even bother talking to me anymore. He just smiles victoriously every time I pass him, checking out the bruises and poking the parts where I hurt most. Shoes are no longer allowed for me. I need to walk around on bare feet. Yesterday, he dropped a beer bottle on purpose, right after he finished it. I had to clean it up, but the dust bin lay in the closet across the room and by the time I got there, my feet were bleeding and stinging like crazy. Brittany picked the splinters out of my flesh later that night. It didn't hurt as much as I expected. Especially when she looked at me with her precious eyes and kissed me softly on the lips a second later.

At night, I'm lying awake, staring at the ceiling. The darkness allows me to memorize her breathing pattern. I love the way she sounds when she's asleep. It's so peaceful and promising that, for a few hours, this house doesn't feel as awful anymore. She has that effect on me. But talking about what happened? We don't seem to get there. Besides, every time an opportunity appears, John magically interrupts whatever we are doing. It's when he grabs me by the throat or smacks me over the head, that she comes closer to take care of me. Her hands will caress my hurting skin and soothe the pain, like she's done a million times before. Her touch helps me relax and forget about it for as long as it takes. At night, I kiss her when she's halfway off to sleep. She smiles just before it takes her away. It gives her pleasant dreams.

* * *

Months must have turned into over a year, because the flowers and the trees have taught me that the seasons rotated full round and the circle is starting to repeat itself.

How long have I been here, for God's sake? And how would my mother and father be without me?

My hair has grown out of proportion by now. The ponytail has reached the length of my butt. But Brittany still isn't allowed to cut it. It's preserved for my fantasy about a hair stylist. Nothing can change my mind about that. It's some sort of far-fetched hope that keeps me going. For now.

The trees are still there, just like my hopes and dreams to get out of here someday. But the coolness and miserability of winter gave me a clear view on the largeness of the woods fencing the garden. It's the first winter since I'm allowed to go outside. All the leaves have gone but there's still no looking past them. The trees and bushes just keep coming, no matter where you turn your eye to. We're literally in the middle of nowhere. At world's end. We're trapped, like animals in a cage.

It's freezing and I've never experienced cold like this before. How spoiled to be privileged to huddle up around a fire place where I used to live. Back in the days when wearing two sweaters at once wasn't that strange when snow covered the ground. All I have now are these thin rags and the blanket from our bed. My feet are blue by the end of day, since I walk around without any shoes or socks. John secretly enjoys it. He burned them all and forced me to watch. Brittany is forbidden to share hers with me. If she does, he'll lock me up in the basement without any food or water for a week, he announced. He's serious, because he's done it before.

At first, Brittany refused to listen to him and offered me some of her worn off leftovers anyway. But I refused. I've suffered starved days and lonely nights in that awful place before, on several occasions - when I talked back or put up a fight. He kept me there in the dark, with even less comfort than the first days that I spend in this house. I will not go back to that voluntarily.

We're in bed and our synchronized shuddering forces us to seek each other's warmth. We skipped the part about talking about our feelings and just went back to cuddling and kissing at night. We're like this crazy duo now, that has a sexual life at night, but live as best friends during the day.

She has put socks on my feet the second John locked the door behind us, but it doesn't seem to help the pain my feet are in. They've been out in the cold for to long, today. If only that masochistic bastard would turn up the heat. But no, that would mean he's considerate and compassionate. I thought I used to build walls up around me to keep people on a distance, but that guy brings that to a whole new level.

Her fists circle forcefully over my body to heat me up. The friction seems to magically have its desired effect. I have my head buried under her chin and we're skin to skin. She feels so good, so warm - so safe. There were days when my mom would put a hot water bottle under my blanket to make sure I wouldn't be uncomfortably chilly at night, back at home. It made me sweat like a horse. The thought makes me sigh. At the same time, it makes me angry.

"You know that ... this is hell, right? This is the very definition of hell. And you'd think there'd be fire or lava in hell - because we'd at least be warm in the middle of the night - but no. We don't have that luck."

I start to shake and tremble, because as my words leave my mouth and bend into fumes, I suddenly remember how cold it is outside. Her arms start to rub along my bare arms again, in an attempt to warm me up a bit.

"And then there's John. He's a mother fucking asshole - he's the devil himself. And we're just ... we're the bastards that ended up with him."

She doesn't say anything at all. All I get from her is her warmth, her understanding, her listening ear and a shoulder to cry on. My freezing body slowly starts to stretch out, until the squeaking mattress has us laying facing each other. Her eyes are faint and tired from a long day of working around the house. I can tell that she's eager to go to sleep, but she prefers to listen to my rambling and whining instead. She's the best thing about my life right now. It hits me every time I look at her. Her hands are holding me in a tight embrace and there's not a sound in this house that overwhelms the loud screaming of her beauty in my mind. My head slowly moves in to kiss her. My lips touch hers for the first time today and every little thing I just said vanishes like it has never been spoken. I can breathe again. I can finally breathe again, because of her. The shuddering has stopped. My mouth's open, far enough to pump some fresh air into my lungs and it fades out all the hurt I'm experiencing. A faint smile takes me away to a better place. She reacts by smiling back. That's when I realize.

"But I'd rather be in this hellhole, than be somewhere else without you."

* * *

The sun has started to fade behind the leafless trees when John announces his departure for the evening. He'll visit the local bar, though I'm not sure if it's the truth. Does this guy even have friends to spend his nights with? The mysterious, pink scar claims my attention as he takes his keys out of his left pocket to lock the back door. He's wearing the freshly ironed pants Brittany lay on his bed, along with a checkered shirt. His brown hair's carefully combed back. He looks neat … normal even. Meeting him on the street wouldn't make you suspect a thing. Sure, he ain't the prettiest. He looks dangerous and psychopathically to me, but any other woman in the world would find him _charming_ and _mysterious_. His grumpy and blunt way of talking must intrigue the better part of them. Women can be stupid like that. I used to be.

My keeper leaves the kitchen on his way to the front door. In the distance, there's the sound of unlocking padlocks. We've heard it before. It's John's way out. And his insurance to keep us in here. We get to breathe when he's out for groceries or work. No insults, no yelling, no beating. The longer he's gone, the more my life feels normal again.

It'll take him fifteen more seconds before he closes the door behind him to start the process of locking us up, making sure we have nowhere to run. Brittany's in the back part of the room, cooking pasta, sausages and vegetables for later tonight - her favorite. The smell nauseates me - but I don't know why. She's a great cook, actually. I like whatever it is she's serving, no matter how unconventional her creations may be.

My bare feet bring me to the living room area, even though we're technically not allowed to move a muscle until the door's locked entirely. But he's halfway out by now, he'll never know.

The wall of books is still there. I've started rereading a few of the classics to keep me entertained. It's nice to discover new things when you don't expect them in the world of written words. I put both hands on my hips as I try to find my next choice to read. I wiggle my cold toes when a loud and heartbreaking cry for help suddenly reverberates from the room I left a second ago. My heart stops beating immediately, because I recognize the voice.

It's Brittany.

Something happened to Brittany.

The next few moments seem like a foggy haze. I race back through the door, completely terrified for what I may find, when John surprisingly resurfaces and cuts me off from the hallway. He hadn't left yet.

I stand there, hands on both sides of the doorway, watching whatever it is that's happening and quickly learn that Brittany burned herself seriously. She's crying in the most hysterical way, covering her fire-red right arm. The kettle with pasta is spread across the cold, tiled floor. So is the boiling water that was in it. My instinct tells me to go and take care of her, to comfort her with hugs and kisses. But John is standing next to her already, and he's reacting all worried. The guy's panicking - he has no idea what to do. I've never seen such compassionate feelings rising from him. Hurting me doesn't bother him, but seeing Brittany hurt, that triggers the small, little, good part that's left of him somehow. She's his surrogate daughter, the girl he's raised to be a young woman. He learned her how to read and to do math. She's his little creation.

His fingers grasp for the water tap, after which he forces her to keep her arm under the running water. The painful screaming breaks my heart, but I can't come near. He'll push me back and get mad at me. His attention will go to punishing me, instead of taking care of her.

But suddenly, an unconscious and inexplicable pulse forces me to look to the left. And just like observing a miracle, there's the mysterious front door: wide open, unlocked and allowing the last bits of sunlight of today to enter the hallway. The sight fades out all the noises. All there's left is freedom, inviting me, _begging_ me to cross the doorstep. A fleeting look teaches me that John's too busy taking care of Brittany to pay attention to anything else. Slow steps bring me closer to my way out. I literally smell the freshness of escape. Through the small entrance, a white van and a long dirt road can be seen. It takes seconds before I remind myself to breathe again.

As I reach the outer wall of the fortress, my fingers clutch around the wooden frame of the door. The front yard is messy. There's a mail box that looks ancient. But nothing else. Not a person, not a single sign of life. Except far in the distance, high above the woods, columns of smoke color the grey skyline.

Chimneys! It must be chimneys! There are houses or factories somewhere around. I take a courageous step forward and shock myself by stepping out of this house for the first time that isn't the backyard.

I've never been this nervous. If I start running, I might reach the living world by midnight. At least now I have _some_ sort of direction. Just straight ahead; the smoke plumes are guiding the way. Tears of happiness fill my eyes. There's hope, slapping me in the face. This is the first chance _ever_ to get out of here, to escape John. I've dreamt of this moment, a thousand times during cold nights and lonely days in the basement.

But suddenly, my bliss ends unexpectedly as Brittany's heartbreaking sobbing reaches my ears again. A glimpse learns me just how much she's in pain. Her eyes are swollen as she's being held under the water tap by a nervous John.

Running away from here would mean leaving her behind. With him. In pain.

Confusion overwhelms me. It'll only take a few seconds before John starts to finally gather his thoughts again and he _will_ come and find me. I've been out of that kitchen for too long. Another footstep leads me out of the house. It's hesitant. The wooden floor underneath me cracks. It's the same sound that warns us when John's home. Now it could mean my departure. The sound of getting out.

But her tears, they tear me up inside. I am so afraid to leave this place. I am so afraid to leave Brittany. I'm afraid of what's out there. My brain screams to take a leap and run. Run as fast and as long as I possibly can. And then there's my heart. It commands me to stay with her, take care of her, take those exact same bandaids she's used to patch me up a million times before.

* * *

"Are you okay?"

My slow, defeated and tempered voice makes Brittany and John look up to me. In that exact moment, John puts together the pieces of the truth: he didn't close the door. He left me with an opportunity. I cross him like nothing has happened and courageously push his body away with my elbow. I don't care if he hurts me now. Brittany's all that matters. That's when I put my left hand on her hurting arm, to take over his task of nursing the girl I adore. My feet are soaking wet from the water on the ground - but I couldn't care less.

John surprisingly doesn't yell at me or force me back. He's too shaken up. His eyes rage with confusion as he quickly takes a gander at the door he opened a few minutes ago. It's locked secure, with the padlocks clicked tight again. The keys are on the inside, slightly dangling. My road to freedom has been ignored, because, no, I could never just leave her. Not even in my wildest dreams, I'd leave her behind with this animal.

During some stolen moments, my eyes flash back and forward between the two of them. John's stumbling away from us, gasping for air like a nervous, little boy. The realization that I neglected to easily take off and turn him in to the police, confuses the hell out of him. I'm sure he'll never understand. He'll never know how much I care for Brittany. How thankful I am for all the things she's done for me these past months.

The scar under his eyes disappears from my sight. With a hand to support his shaking body, the wall on the other side of the room becomes his pillar. The other one rubs his panicking face. _Close call, wasn't it, fucker? _

Brittany's red, weepy eyes flare up at me. I can tell she knows exactly where I was. This girl reads my missed opportunity. Without saying the words, her face asks me why I didn't do it - why I stayed and closed the door like a beat-up, lost, obedient puppy. A disappointed sigh escapes my lungs as my fingers caress the red skin of her arm. She doesn't move a muscle, though. There are no more tears or sobbing.

"Because I love you." I softly whisper, making sure John didn't hear me.

I realized it a minute ago. And I had to tell her.

* * *

The next morning, we're scrubbing the floor with some shaky brooms. Soap bubbles up the tiles. How Cinderella-ish. Her arm's wrapped in bandages and sterilized gauze. I didn't find ointment for burns or something, so I just put some of John's moisturizing cream on the wound. Brittany hasn't said a lot since it happened. As soon as she stopped crying last night and John recovered from the shock, he took her in his arms to her to bed. He kissed her lovingly on the forehead before closing his eyes for a long time. I stood in the doorway, confused out of my mind with what was happening. This wasn't the John we both knew.

He sat next to her until she fell asleep. Then he waited for her to stop moaning in pain unconsciously.

The guy got up and stared at her for a couple more seconds. Then, he walked over to me, nodding towards the bed.

"Time to sleep, Santana." he said, so very kind that under any other circumstances, I might have liked the way he spoke.

His voice wasn't as threatening as normal. I guess it all shook him up badly.

When we woke up this morning, our bedroom door was unlocked en he was gone. Brittany and I didn't understand. Maybe he woke up early for work. Maybe he didn't want to disturb Brittany while she was resting. But he was _gone_ - and that worried her. She has this connection with him, you see. He's the only father she remembers.

Instead of taking it easy, she suggested to start doing our chores immediately. That way, he'd be pleased when he'd get home. I listened, because I felt sorry for her.

And now here we are, counting the bubbles around us, trying hard not to look at each other.

"Brittany." I finally sigh, tired of playing this childish game.

She ignores me and continues the same movement she's been doing ten minutes already. That part of the floor must be cleaned for life now.

"Will you at least look at me, please?"

She shakes her head determined: "Nope."

You stubborn little thing! I lean on the top of the broom and frown offended. She has got to be kidding me.

"Fine, then I'll just talk to you without having to look you in the eye. Might be easier." I shrug, just to piss her off.

An annoyed sigh leaves her mouth. I don't understand why she's acting this way.

"I realize you're mad at me. But I don't know why, to tell you the truth. Is it … because of what I said? Are you mad that I told you I love you?"

She closes her eyes for a second and finally stops her movements. Her broom gets placed against the kitchen counter. A couple of fingers linger over the bandage around her sore arm.

"I'm not." she assures me.

Relief is a great emotion to experience. It warms your heart. But her eyes are not all that happy about it.

"Then what is it?"

She walks over to me and cups my hands in hers. Her thumb caresses my skin and I start smiling. She just stares at our connection, scared to look up.

"Brittany." I sigh away my confusion, encouraging her to speak up.

My lips kiss her forehead, just like John did last night. She shuts out the sight of things again.

"Nothing good can ever come out of this, Santana. Why didn't you run? Why didn't you …"

My skin brushes along her face, until my lips reach her ear.

"I'd rather be in this hellhole, than be somewhere else without you, remember?"

She starts nodding repeatedly, like she can't stop.

"I am so sorry, Santana." she whispers.

I sense desperation in her voice and it worries me. Her hands let go of me and they find their way around my body.

"I am so sorry that I ever asked him to keep you here. Because I know he did it for me. He hurts you and he treats you bad. And you're trapped and you missed out on that one chance you got to escape. _All_ because of me."

But before I get the chance to comfort her and explain how all of this has nothing to do with her, but with the monster that's keeping us here, loud noises suddenly break the tension. They're coming from the front part of the house, the front door.

I turn around in fear and push Brittany protectively behind me.

"John?" she asks.

But I know it isn't him. See, John has a key. Whoever is there, isn't using one. There's loud bashing against the wood that's secured by all the locks. My body starts shaking uncontrollably. What if it are the guys John always talks about. Those men that are going to take me away from here. Maybe they're finally here. After what I almost did last night, he might have changed his mind about keeping me with Brittany and him.

A tight pull guides me to the back part of the kitchen. We try to hide behind the massive cabinet, but we couldn't fool anyone even if it were dark.

That's when the wood of the door seems to break. I recognize the sound. There are numerous footsteps that race across the floors in the house.

We have no idea what's going on. All I know is that I'm about to pee my pants. That's how scared I am.

"Santana." Brittany shrieks.

But I hush her, keep her safely behind me and pray that it all will stop in a second. Whoever it is, they are inside. And they've come to find us.

There are a lot of voices to be heard, but I don't recognize John's. God, I wish he was here.

_What the hell is happening? _

I feel Brittany's fingers digging deep inside of my skin. It should hurt, but it doesn't. I know what's rushing through her veins. It's rushing through mine as well.

"I love you, too." she softly whispers in my ear.

It feels like the last words she'll ever say to me. Like this is her last breath. I grasp on to her tightly and close my eyes as the footstep bring the strangers closer to the kitchen entrance.

That's when I hear loud, relieved screams reverberating. I can't help but sneak a peek. I've learned to be a bit braver during my stay in this house. What I see startles me. I gasp for a breath.

"It's the police!" I utter, almost sure I am dreaming.

The weight of the world crashes down on my shoulders. Brittany's tucked away behind me when she snaps out of her fear of death.

"What!?" she stutters.

Some men, completely dressed in blue combatting clothing, carefully approach us. They reach out their gun-free hand, in a way to comfort us, while identifying themselves as police officers. All of them are wearing helmets and bulletproof vests, like they're about to go to war. I can't stop looking around the place - at all of them.

"Are you girls okay?" one of them asks.

I can't answer. I can't utter a single word. All my body's able to do is shake with confusion.

"Is there anyone else around here? A man, a woman?"

Terrified shrugging happens, as I try to memorize all the people standing around us. Brittany's still hiding, burying her head deep between my shoulder-blades. I feel her heart racing against my skin.

"John's not here. He left this morning." I finally stutter, in an attempt to keep them on a safe distance.

One of them approaches us, but I gesture him to stay back. Brittany's not used to strangers. She's scared out of her mind.

One of the officers orders the rest to put down their weapons. I forget to blink while all of it happens. They are trying to win our trust, that much is sure. But Brittany trusts nobody else but me. And I've been taken the ability to trust anyone by John.

"I am detective Webb. You're safe now." he tell us calmly.

His helmet disappears from his head. He looks exactly like a cop: strict, tired and determined. His blue, excited eyes put me at ease immediately, just like the flattened, dark hairs on his head. A faint smile flares up the expression on his face - he looks genuinely happy and thrilled to have found us.

My heart stops racing for a split second, while my head tumbles and tumbles unstoppable. But then it hits me.

They found us.

We are found.

* * *

_**Hope you liked it ;) **_


	7. Hasty blurs and blue uniforms

_I AM BACK FROM MEXICO ! And full of inspiration :D_

* * *

**Hasty blurs and blue uniforms **

Everything after that moment seems like a memory that isn't mine. We were taken out of the fortress within minutes. The police was worried that someone might come home to walk in on us, even though we assured them that there was no chance. Only John knew where we lived. Only he came by the house. In all those months, I hadn't seen a stranger. Brittany kept hiding in my arms and my warm embrace as the black, impressive SUVs with darkened windows took us further and further away from where we've been kept captured for months - Brittany even for years.

"So …" the detective who introduced himself as Webb before, sighed relieved and proud.

I noticed he had tears in his eyes as he looked over to me and in order to kept it hidden, he held both hands in front of his mouth. I didn't understand. The car was shaking, since we were driving so fast, with sirens blasting through the air that all the rapidity and unfamiliarity shook me up completely. All I knew was that I held a scared, shaking Brittany in my tight embrace. Her fingers were clenched deep in my skin, but it didn't hurt. All around us were cops, dressed as if they were ready to head to war. She closed her eyes to block them out.

"I finally found you." the man emphasized while catching a relieved breath.

He kept looking at me as if I were a ghost - some distant memory - but I didn't recall ever meeting him before that day.

I seemed to ignore him by accident. All those noises, all those people. I hadn't seen more than two people for over a year. This was too much. Especially for her - this was a first ever. She was scared out of her mind outside the fortress.

My head turned around, suspiciously looking for inconsistencies, to seek the other black SUVs that followed us. But the detective put his hands on mine, which surprised me - and my eyes spit fire at his as if the devil was facing me. He apologized immediately.

I know I should've trusted this guy immediately, but John broke me. He made sure that everyone looked potentially dangerous to me.

"You're Santana Lopez." he tried again, distant and careful this time.

His eyes were staring directly at me. It was the first time I heard my last name in months, and I don't know why, but it made me sob like a little child. Someone remembered me.

"Nice to meet you, beautiful. I've been looking for you since the evening you disappeared."

His relieved words sounded like angels singing. And they made my heart stop for a full three seconds. They _were_ looking. John was wrong - they never stopped searching for me. After all those months, this guy _proved_ him wrong.

My blood started pumping with excitement. And then, suddenly, it hit me again - like a cruel, relieving slap in the face: I had been found. The nightmare was over. I caressed Brittany's skin with tender touches. Finally, she opened her eyes.

"I'm sorry, but … what's your name, sweetie?" Detective Webb asked her immediately.

His gentle stare eased her up. She finally faced him and after looking for my approval, she revealed her name: "Brittany, Sir. My name is Brittany."

"And your last name?"

She shrugged. She didn't know. Neither did I. John never told her.

The guy grabbed a notebook which was tucked inside of his back pocket and flared his eyes over the numerous pages he had scribbled full of words. The worrying behavior confused me.

After a couple of silent, almost inaudible conversations with the officers nearby, I found the courage to address him. By then, Brittany had put her head on my shoulder again. All I kept repeating, was that everything would be okay.

"I'm sorry, Sir. But what is wrong? And please don't tell me that everything is okay, because I know it isn't."

He hesitated for a second, but I cut him off shortly: "You say you've been looking for me for months now. Then at least do me the favor of not lying to me."

My straightness made him nervous. He sighed with the weight of the world crawling up on his shoulders and shook his head disappointedly: "We don't know who she is."

Brittany looked up to me and squeezed her eyes shut after four seconds. My heart felt worried. This wasn't good.

* * *

After a ten minute drive, we got escorted into the police department I recognized from a long time ago. I didn't always find my way to the city, but when I did, I constantly crossed the old, impressive building that kept local thieves and murderers behind bars. Brittany hadn't said a single word after giving her name away.

After asking for my permission, she nervously went to the bathroom with a friendly, female officer. She wanted to know _what_ to do with every new thing that crossed her path. She had no idea how this new world worked. I seemed to be her guide.

"Where's John?" I asked detective Webb without wasting another second, couching through some of my confusion.

I was afraid to ask as long as she stood next to me, squeezing my fingers. But now, as I saw her walking away from me, looking around the place in wonder, I knew it was my only chance to stay one step ahead of her.

Detective Webb pulled off his gloves and licked his lower lip hesitantly. That's when he closed his eyes for a heartbeat.

"John … wasn't John. His name was Eric. Eric Madden."

Something felt wrong, I read it off his face. At the same time, I thanked my instincts. I had always known John lied about his identity. The officer next to me glanced across the office. The four other men remained extremely quiet until they all took off.

"You can tell me, Sir. After all the things that happened to me in that house, nothing can scare me anymore." I told him courageously.

Detective Webb raised his eyes to me and frowned with compassion. The guy had no idea. I mean, I still carried bruises from the last beating John gave me. And that one wasn't even that bad.

"Mister Madden killed himself this morning." he said straight away. "He jumped in front of a train and left a note on how to find two, young abducted girls. We only got an address. I knew it was you immediately. I prayed for it to be."

But I was wrong, because this information choked me up entirely.

John was _dead_?

The sadistic bastard that kidnapped and kept me captured was _dead_?

He got off _this_ easily?

He read it off my startled face. That's when he made another attempt to put his warm hand on top of mine. I heard inaudible noises coming from the radios around the place, but I didn't even try to listen to it anymore. My world had gone faded.

I heaved a breath to think about what this would do to Brittany. He was the only dad she's remembered. This news would destroy her. And out of all the people in this place, I was the only one who owed her the courage to tell her the truth.

* * *

As soon as she saw me after walking out of the bathroom, she dove into my embrace for comfort. I started smiling like crazy; I was _that_ happy to see her again and the feeling was mutual. God, this was only a silly bathroom break. Her body was shaking, though. She has no memories about the outside world, so this whole new experience startled her.

"I got you." I promised her. "It's okay."

"Where's John?" she asked me with a terrified stutter.

Of course she was wondering. My face went pale just by the thought of telling her he was dead. They had this weird kind of relationship that even surprised me after all those months. I was afraid to break her heart right there, right that second. But I had to.

"Something happened to John." I told her bravely, without catching a breath. "He - uhm …"

"He's dead?" she asked me, so bluntly that her face didn't even move.

I was surprised by the rapidity of which she understood the situation. A few heartbeats passed and suddenly, I dared to nod.

"He is." I mumbled.

She nodded understandably and I didn't understand any of it.

"I'm so sorry, Brittany." I told her while lovingly cupping her face with my warm hands.

I meant it. Even after all he did to me, I understood how much he meant to her.

"Don't be." she snorted her tears away. "He once told me that me getting out of there would mean the end of his life. He'd never let me leave, he promised. So … I knew this would come."

Detective Webb seemed surprised by her sober reaction. So was I.

Funny how she was this strong, even though every single, meaningly noise in the room seemed to shake her up. God, this girl didn't even have movies to grow up with. Just my stories - and the lack of imagination or empathy to guide her through a self-shaped vision of the outside world during midnight talks. Of course this place was pure horror for her.

I told her a million times that the police were the good guys and that one day, they'd come and get us. I convinced her of the magical boredom of the outside world, when I talked about my memories and adventures as a free girl. Slowly, she had started to believe that there were better people in this world than John. She just never met them. Until now.

Dozens of police officers were staring at us in wonder as we got guided to a quiet, empty room across the hallway. Detective Webb sat us down to talk for a minute. I didn't knew what was happening, but I guess there'd be a lot more moments like that in the near future. The room smelled like coffee and chocolate milk, I remember that. It had three sofas and a counter. The windows were blinded with curtains. It was just the three of us.

"Santana, Brittany, listen." he started off by offering us some hot chocolate.

I felt the warm cup in my hands and sighed relieved. It couldn't possibly get worse from now on. This could only end well, I felt it in my bones.

"In a minute, there will be officers that are going to take the both of you to the hospital. Doctors will examine you to make sure you're okay. Now, I need to ask you both, because I'm really concerned about the two of you: are you girls okay?"

Brittany looked at me, not sure if she was allowed to speak. She had never actually been on a doctor's visit before. I told her it was fine to say whatever it is she had to say from now on and softly smiled.

"I'm okay." she whispered shyly, squeezing my hand.

Even the wound on her arm didn't bother her anymore. Detective Webb nodded compassionately, but couldn't stop staring at her injury.

"It's a burn." I explained. "From cooking last night. And these -"

I pointed at my arms and neck. They were black and blue. My second skin color lately.

"- it are bruises from getting hit. But I'm fine now."

The guy softly nodded. He was surprised by my courage, my determination to not cry.

A soft knock on the door startled my best friend and me. Every single sound around us was new. I had to adjust. Detective Webb got on his feet and walked over to the door. That's when he turned around to find us staring at him.

* * *

It's funny how few of it I remember now, but detective Webb cleared the news about my parents being in the building. Every single motion of my body stopped that instant. I remember him opening the door. I remember seeing them in the hallway. I remember how my mother looked skinnier than before and my father balder. They looked exhausted and relieved. They stared at me with eyes of a treasure hunter who just discovered a new, precious diamond. And for a minute, neither of us could move.

I rose from my chair, that much I know, and started crying with the first heartbeat that came along.

"Mamá! Papá!" I shouted like an emotional five-year-old after hearing their _names_ coming out of my own mouth.

Brittany didn't know what happened.

For the first time since long, I cried for the _good_ reasons. It felt like a dream. A hasty blur that brought me back to them. And if was like I was staring at the three of us from outside my own body.

My parents came rushing through the door and I dove into their warm embrace. We all cried for a solid five minutes, while we whispered Spanish words of love and missing. I felt the fingers of my parents dig deep into my skin, making sure it wasn't a dream.

They petted my greasy hair, they memorized my skinny face. And the glorious feeling went as quickly as it came. My memory deserts me every time I think about it now. Simply because there are no words to describe how deliberating and great it felt to finally see them again. I had hoped for it for months, but a sober, realistic bit of me slowly had adjusted to the idea that knowing them may have been a thing from the past that would never return.

My dad promised me he had never stopped searching. Mom told me she didn't change a single thing in my room. I believed them. I asked about the rest of the family, they told me everyone was fine. And that they all had missed me.

And then, their eyes found Brittany, sitting quietly and confused in the corner of the couch.

I wiped away the tears running down my face and cupped her hands to get her on her feet. I caught a deep breath and sniffed up all the other tears inside of me. My hands were fast to seek my parents' contact again. I could feel them. It was unreal.

"This is Brittany. She's been taking really good care of me all the time while I was gone."

Brittany seemed pleased about the positive description and immediately felt at ease.

"Brittany?" my mom repeated in wonder.

"John took her as well." I explained.

My mom frowned deeply and sighed away her abomination about the situation.

"Took her? How long … how long … ?"

God, hearing her voice seemed like a dream. I never knew I had missed it so much until I heard it again. Brittany kneaded the inside of my upper arm. I told her they were okay. After all, they were my parents. I had talked about them for nights and days. She asked me a lot about how it felt to have parents. At first I didn't get what she meant by that. But after a few weeks had passed, that realization came quickly

"Nice to meet you. I'm Brittany. I've lived with John ever since I was eight years old."

She talked politely, like she had read in books. My parents put both hands in front of their mouths and sighed deeply. They dared to count, quietly. I knew exactly what they were thinking: this girl must have been there for years. Ten years, to be correct. I got off easily.

* * *

Exactly six days later, the police figured out who my girl was. Her real name appeared to be Susan Pierce. Susan Brittany Pierce. John wisely addressed her with her middle name from the second she was kidnapped. Her family moved away from the area a couple of years after the police stopped searching. Everybody thought she was dead, taken by some evil maniacs, murdered - maybe worse - and dumped in some place no one would ever find her. She wouldn't have been the first. There were no leads, no indications she was still alive. The police couldn't do anything, because they had no clues. Over the years, the case got forgotten. And no description pointed towards the girl they found together with Santana Lopez.

Brittany's parents flew over on the seventh day and got reunited with their disoriented daughter that same afternoon at the police station.

I wasn't there. Our psychologist thought it was a bad idea. Brittany needed to process the reunion on her own, without me as a silent observer, he said. Brittany had the tendency to clench on to me, both physically and mentally since we got out. Somewhere deep inside, I understood.

I heard she cried a lot, mostly because she didn't remember any of them. Her parents were normal, working class people. The dad, Richard, worked at a factory. Her mom, Callie, cleaned houses. It turned out Brittany had an older sister, Leslie. The woman, twenty three years old, was the one who walked beside her on the sidewalk, when a man - John - pushed her aside and pulled a young, unsuspecting Susan into a red truck. The sister grew up to be a lawyer. To fight injustice.

She came home to me that night and fell asleep in my arms, crying. I met her parents the day after. All of them were extremely shocked, but nice. Leslie was charmingly pretty, just like Brittany. There was no denying they were related. But my best friend was scared and confused. She had a mom she didn't remember, she didn't even dare to come close. Sure, she was eight when she got abducted. Memories start to form long before that age. But John helped her to get rid of them. He helped her forget. And ten years were a pretty convenient length to be persuasive about forgetting what was once there.

And all of a sudden, a normal life routine kicked back in. We didn't even notice, but it did.

I finally got that long-anticipated haircut and my hairs now shine brighter than they've ever before. I keep it at shoulder length _and_ stylish _and_ great. The sound of scissors, cutting the majority of it off made me cry with joy. It was the moment I realized I was truly free again.

But it wasn't all fun and paradise, though. The therapy and the police interrogations were horrible. They never stopped. We spend hours at the police station, digging up memories.

It wasn't as bad as the press, still. Journalists naturally heard about our story and started writing long, detailed articles about our captivity. Newspapers got hold on legal documents and statements that came from long hours of questioning. We were on the front page for days. Papers were filled with speculations and lies. With John gone, nobody but us could explain what happened in that house, so strangers showed up on our doorstep non stop, asking for interviews. My dad got really angry at them, which turned up in the newspapers as well. It all got crazy for a while, so the police took drastic measurements. Our families were taken to safe houses, where we got offered the opportunity to start our lives together again. We needed to stay there until the storm flew by. Just a few weeks, they said.

But it was weird.

It was the weirdest thing _ever_.

My mom woke me up with a smile every morning, instead of John yelling at us to get dressed.

My dad cooked me breakfast - blueberry pancakes to be exact - instead of having to push the last of John's toasts down my throat.

Abuela stopped by every single day to brings me cupcakes. I didn't even like cup cakes, but ate them anyway, because they were made with love. And _that_ is the best taste in the world.

Most importantly: there was no John. No yelling or commanding or assault. And I had a hard time to adjust.

It was a dream come true, when you think about it, but there was one big downside: I missed Brittany with every new rediscovery of how beautifully simple and pure life could be. Because she was with her family now, instead of me.

Every evening when I went to bed, she wasn't there. And she had been there for twenty months. How did anyone expect me to fall asleep without her just like that? I caressed the empty place next to me for hours, but that didn't bring her back.

We both were given a cellphone, so we used them extensively to literally breathe each other to sleep at night. Yes, that's right, _breathe_. She'd call me up around ten p.m. and whisper my name, so no one else could hear it. And I'd smile and wish her good night, just like we had done a millions times before. After that, there was the sound of our breathing and that calmed us both down. And just before I dozed off to a dream world where we slept in a same bed again, I ended the phone call - only after being one hundred precent sure that she wasn't awake anymore. I took care of her from a distance.

I knew she was scared. She was afraid of this new, big world. John kept her weirdly safe from surprises and discoveries. That was a nice certainty. It also made her asocial. And very codependent of me. But I didn't mind. I was there for her whenever she needed me. Just like she had always been for me in the fortress.

* * *

_**Hope you liked it ;)**_


	8. Bonding with strangers

**Bonding with strangers**

* * *

"What's that?" my mom asks as she calmly leans against the doorway of the porch.

I'm sitting in the backyard, motionlessly staring at the trees in front of me. Strangely, they doesn't remind me of John's fortress. These trees feel warm and nice. John's trees felt harsh and like a rope around my neck. They represented the cage I was locked up in. A large barrier I couldn't break through.

I sneak a peek and throw her a cautious smile. I notice she's staring at the hoodie I'm wearing.

"I got it from Brittany the other day."

It's blue and warm, and it smells just like her. Well, maybe not anymore, but I'd like to think so. My mother walks over to me and sits down on the cold grass. It's still winter, but the weather's changing. Spring will be here soon. I can smell it.

"You really miss her, don't you?"

I lower my head and bury my nose in the fabric. That's when she realizes I'm not even listening. Her left hand slowly pets my hair, while she keeps looking at me as if I'm some sort of magical creature.

"You have no idea how much we've missed you, Santana."

In a blink, she finally has all of my attention. I raise my head and face the woman I used to be so mad at for stupid reasons. I was so foolish. Such a brat.

"Your father stopped working for months after you disappeared. He didn't treat a single patient. It took him a long time before he found his calling again, to help people."

I heave a sigh and nervously smile. I'm not sure if that should make me happy or sad.

"And I …"

She chokes. She presses her lips together and blinks a few times before preceding. This is hard for her, all those bad memories. I always thought I was the only one having a bad experience while I was gone. Who'd have thought, I was wrong. At least I knew I was okay, alive and breathing, no matter how bruised I was. They didn't.

"I forgot to sleep for weeks, because all day and all night, I'd be out there, _looking_ for you. I told your father to take me to all the places you ever talked to me about, because there was this small, almost non-existing chance you were there - that you just ran off, even though they found your bike … But it was still a chance, and that was better than anything we had. So I searched for you. I had to. You are my little girl. I _had_ to find you."

Her words are heartbreaking. They shake me up completely. So sweet. So sweet to find out you've been missed. And all those months, I doubted it.

I feel the need to apologize, like I've done something wrong. But then again, that's not up to me. Some man called Eric Madden is responsible for all the pain he's caused.

My mother sniffs up some upwelling tears and nods calmly.

"I can't imagine how Susan's parents must have felt. I did this for almost two years. They experienced this horror for ten."

But the fact she calls Brittany Susan disturbs me tremendously for some reason.

"It's Brittany. Her name is Brittany. She's not Susan anymore." I correct her in a rather heated tone.

My mother, quite surprised by my defensive reaction, apologizes and calms me down immediately by rubbing my back with her fingers.

"_Hija_, relax. I don't mean any harm."

Her Spanish-sounding words let me know how agitated and aggressive I am since my departure from the fortress. It's that damn John. He's dead, but he's everywhere I go. All that time, my only way of surviving was a weird defense mechanism. And now I don't need it anymore, yet I can't seem to shake it off.

Of course I know my mom didn't mean it like that. She doesn't know Brittany. She knows the girl Susan from the police files she had a look at. And those six days we spend together after our release. But during that time, Brittany kept quietly hiding behind my back and safely in my old bedroom. It's not like they bonded for life.

Nothing about my mother's reaction deserved my heated reaction, but it became a second nature. A habit.

"Can I go see her today? I need to see her."

I need to ask for permission if I go somewhere. They're still a quite worried. My mom nods and puts her soft fingers on my cheeks. Her touch still makes me want to cry like a little child, because it feels like a dream come true to be able to experience it again.

"Whatever you want, _Santanita_." she whispers in a cute way.

That's when my head falls down on her shoulder, which used to happen a lot when I was a little, careless girl, and my eyes continue their endless stare towards the sky. I hear my mother's heartbeat - and, man, does that feel comfortable.

"Did Beckett and Castle ever become a couple?" I casually ask, completely disturbing the perfection of the moment.

_Castle_. My television show.

My mom starts laughing out loud and needs to catch a breath before answering.

"They did. It's _Caskett_ now." she informs me proudly.

A relieved smile takes over my face.

"I knew it."

* * *

"I don't know why your mother doesn't like me, Brittany. I mean, she _should_ cut me some slack. I've been abducted. Can't I ever use that as leverage to make people like me?"

She smiles sillily, kind of ignoring the borderline rudeness coming from my mouth, while pointing out her new clothes spread over the bed. There's even a snapback. When will she be wearing that? Not under my watch!

"My sister bought them for me. She earns, like, ridiculous amounts of money."

Even ten bucks is a lot of money to her. It makes me smile. Such pride. Though, I get the feeling she still needs to process the fact that she has a sister every time she mentions it. Then again, nothing about a family is familiar to her.

"I haven't seen you in three days." she finally pouts, as her fingers linger over the fabric of her new jeans, talking to it like it's me she's touching.

I nod, as I stand right behind her, studying the way she moves. She's gained a few pounds, to the point where she finally looks healthy again. I never realized she could look even prettier. Now she's proved me wrong.

"I know. I've missed you."

My voice sounds soft and honest. She likes that. Her body turns around and her radiant smile reappears. She walks over to me and throws her arms around my neck. It feels like coming home. Her hair smells nice. Like vanilla. And her heart is racing, I feel it against my chest. We hold on to each other for a solid minute.

"Sometimes …"

But I stop talking as soon as I realize what I was about to say. Brittany lets go of me and squeezes her eyes in anticipation.

"What? You can tell me."

I nervously sigh and frown distracted. Her hand's holding on to my sleeve now. Well, _her_ hoodie - _her_ sleeve, to be correct.

"Sometimes I wish we were back again. Just for a day. Or a night. I wouldn't even bother having John around." I admit, afraid that it will sound crazy.

She doesn't respond immediately, but clearly, she understands. Just the familiarity, you know. Being around each other, being in that house we know so well. Locked up is a weird way of feeling safe, once you're used to it. As long as you're in that house and you know exactly what's coming at you - or in John's case _who_ - it's disturbingly nice to know that nothing else can surprise you. Out here, everything's possible.

"I hated every second I was in there. And now all I want is to go back." I continue. "But I can't say that out loud, because people will never understand. Except you."

This brave new world we're in, it's scary. There's a thousand more John's out here. They're just walking around - and nobody has a clue who's locked up in those monsters' houses.

But it's not the only thing that's creepy. We have all sorts of interested strangers, asking for interviews or statements. I already have a book deal and I'm not even sure I want to talk about what happened in that house in the first place. And Brittany has a family now. Something she never had. That's the scariest thing of all. So, yes, being in that fortress was the easy part.

"You're wearing my hoodie." she whispers proudly, while completely dropping the subject.

We don't need to talk about it. She understands - she feels the same way.

I look down at the blueness that was originally wrapped around her body. Her fingers softly pull the fabric from my skin to play around with it.

"Yes. I wear it when I miss you. It feels like you're hugging me from a distant."

A cute grin reverberates from her. So cheesy, but it doesn't miss its effect. She pulls me close to kiss me on the lips and that surprise warms my heart. We've been doing this kissing and fooling around thing a lot since we were found. The more we're apart, the more we realize how much we miss each other. And then we meet again and this happens. I'm not complaining, though. The best feeling in the world is her lips touching mine.

The situation escalates rather quickly. We both want it, so I dive in to take the chance. I reach for her jeans, to unbutton them, but she hesitates - may I say, rather unconvincingly.

"My mom and dad are here. They could hear us."

"Then make sure you're really quiet." I tell her, slipping her some advice on parents.

She's not the girl who protests resolutely. My luck. I have her pinned against the wall in no time, shirtless. My mouth traces down her neck, her breasts and her stomach smoothly. I love her taste. It's sweet and reminds me of candy canes. She's panting as her hands hover over my hair.

"Santana." she whispers, out of breath, all worked up.

I look up from way beneath her belt. That's when I see something that's only to be found in her eyes. A sparkle without a name. But I think it's love. It must be love. She's radiating a mysterious glow that captures me with wonder.

"I love you." she tells me sincerely. "I don't know a lot about this world yet. _But_ I know I love you."

I rise from the ground - literally - and press my lips against hers.

"I love you, too." I assure her, breathing through her mouth.

She licks her lower lip and contently sighs.

"Now shut up and kiss me." I command her with a silly giggle.

* * *

A heavy session with the therapist. Each and every time, it makes me feel overwhelmingly nauseous and insecure. Remembering all what happened seems to bring a lot of emotions along. I rather not talk about it, or talk about it with Brittany. But I _need_ to do this, they say. I _need_ to face the reality of what I've been through. I'm not convinced.

A month has passed and I'm still nowhere. I am studying hard to get my G.E.D., simply because a girl is nothing with a diploma. But other than that? I have no goals in live - no direction. I came out of that house, packed with traumatic experiences and a secret girlfriend. Weeks later, that's still all I've got.

My mom told me about Quinn, how she left for college a couple of months ago. She's somewhere in New York, studying economics. The Cheerios became National Champions the year I disappeared. Quinn wasn't part of it, though. She dropped out a week after they started the search. Practice got in the way of all the hours she could be out there looking for me. The thought of it makes me angry at her, yet so very proud at the same time.

That stupid bitch. I never knew she was actually such a true friend. And now I can't thank her.

Mamá says the girl spent a lot of time in our house the first few weeks, making sure my parents were okay. Before I went missing, my best friend came by every other day, to talk, to stage some creative cheerleading practice or to fight about boyfriends.

My therapist and I talked about that, too, during my appointment today. We talk about everything, three times a week. Every tuesday, every thursday and every saturday. I'm sick and tired of it, especially since Brittany can't be part of it. We _process_ things separately, mostly because it's a lot harder on her than on me. She's struggling so much - struggling to cope with her conflicting feelings about hating, yet missing John. To cope with mourning for the man that took away her change to live a normal life. To cope with finding a seemingly impossible way of weirdly loving him still.

I'm in the bathroom puking my guts out when my dad walks in. He asks if I'm okay. My dad is a sober person. He's a doctor, so unless I'm barfing up blood or rainbows, he isn't going to be worried.

"It's just … part of therapy, I guess." I growl while hovering over the toilet seat.

Lovely, just lovely. What good will therapy do when it literally makes me sick? Papá takes some pieces of toilet paper and hands them over to me. I breathe in and out and use them to wipe my face clean. After that, he helps me to get back up on my feet. His hands remain around my waist, for comfort, for support. He also has that look of wonder in his eyes while looking at me, just like my mother.

"I don't want to do this anymore, Papá." I admit. "I don't want to constantly talk about it, because that won't change the fact that I'm reminded of what happened back there every second of my life."

He and I don't really discuss what went on in that fortress. He knows it was bad. He knows it was bad enough for me to not talk about it. Somehow, he prefers to shut out the details of what some stranger did to his daughter. But that doesn't change the fact that the distant father from my memories has disappeared. He's been here every single day since I got out. He tucks me in at night and wakes me up with breakfast every morning. I like it, it's a nice change. But it'll never fix me.

"But you're doing much better, don't you think?" he asks. "You've even gone out to party two times last month."

Just his way of telling me I'm making progress. Some things never get old. Visiting parties has always been a hobby of mine. I love music - I've missed it so much during the time I was with John. And dancing, God, dancing is just great. It's liberating and relaxing. It takes my mind off of things just for a while. Do I need that …

My parents hate that I go to places where crowds surround me. They would rather keep me locked up inside, but isn't that ironic? So I go out to small gatherings, and I promise to text them every single hour. Old friends accompany me. The old gang. Only Quinn's never there. And nobody has heard from her since they found me. My friends are a bit uncomfortable around me. They feel restricted from having careless, mindless fun. But they don't get that that's exactly what I need. I need people to stop worrying about me. I don't want to feel like a porcelain doll. I want to feel alive.

For a couple of instants, my dad's eyes flicker between the toilet and my pale face. The doctor inside of him surfaces and even though I haven't seen him for twenty months straight, I still know him well enough to figure out what he's about to ask.

"You're not pregnant, are you, Santana?"

I burst into laughter and pat him against the chest.

"No, dad." I snort.

He can't be serious about this, the silly man. But he hesitates while frowning.

"You could tell me, you know."

_Oh_, I see … the caring father thing. He _is_ serious. This whole conversation makes me feel awkward. He's implying that I've been having sex. No father should know about that. Or is he impying that John ... ?

"I know." I stutter.

I try to subtly sneak out of this confrontation by stepping back, but he puts his hand on my arm, careful enough not to scare me.

"Santana, I want you to know that … if you were seeing a guy, some boy - and something were to happen. You can always come talk to me about it. Or ask me questions."

The freaking birds and the bees? Now? _No_! _No, please, don't make up for lost times by doing this!?_

My pale face goes even paler. After all I've suffered, this might be the worst. I rather go back to puking.

"Dad!" I stop him, before he takes this a little bit further.

I'm getting cold sweat. And every fiber in my body starts to shake. Embarrassed, I cover my ears. But he's a determined father now. A changed man. He won't let this go, I can tell.

"Don't be ashamed. It's a natural thing." he tries in his best effort.

The man's more nervous than I am, it seems.

"Papá, I can't be pregnant. Trust me." I stop him before the words 'sex' even dares to flow from his mouth.

"You can't?" he questions.

God, here it'll come. A suggestion that I've been using birth control or something. I panic and briefly close my eyes while suffering this entire thing.

"I can't, Papá." my soft words repeat carefully. "Because …"

His eyes convince me of his genuine interest. He must have promised himself along the way that nothing bad would ever happen to his little girl again. My father keeps staring at me, dying to know what's coming next.

"I don't have sex with boys."

Silence breaks the tension like a loud, crashing airplane. I catch a deep breath and lower my head in fear.

"Because I'm in love with Brittany."

I can't believe I just said that. The words sink in for a while, as we just stand facing each other, no longer saying anything. Enough embarrassment for one day, I guess.

He taps his foot, clears his throat and nods almost invisibly, while processing. This is a very determining moment. This clarification could change every single feeling he has about me. He could hate me from now on.

Papá frowns briefly and rises my chin with his index finger, like he did a lot when I was a little kid and ended up in trouble for some stupid thing.

"Well, good." he states. "Because I'm glad you're home, _Hija_. And I'm glad you're not pregnant."

I catch a faint smile and smile back. Wow, this coming out of the closet thing went a lot better than I read on the internet.

"Now what?" I ask, a bit thrown off my game.

He shrugs and puffs sillily: "Now we tell your mom. And then we'll have dinner."


	9. Confrontations

**Confrontations**

* * *

"I like going to the supermarket." Brittany joyfully announces.

Even though big crowds still seem to disturb her slightly, she enjoys the sight of the diversity of people. The more versatile they appear, the more she likes them. I take her out every now and then, since I'm the only person she fully trusts to show her these new things. It's a safety thing - when occasional anxiety takes over, I'm the one to hold on to. Literally. Her family isn't too happy about it, since they prefer to keep her close and safe inside the house, but every now and then, I convince them with my sincere intentions. It's better for Brittany to discover the world right now. She must learn, before she gets asocial and estranged from a world she has no part in.

We don't get recognized a lot. We've gained pounds, cut our hair - cleaned up nicely since we re-entered the civilization. Besides, yesterday's newspapers are history. People don't remember a front page from a month ago. Sometimes, we'll find some staring at us with compassion, or pointing fingers. We're used to it. I'm glad finally someone notices us, to be honest. I haven't had that for two years.

She's holding on to my hands, like it's a normal thing, and pulls me along through the countless aisles of this massive stores. I ask her if she's okay and she nods.

"What would you like?" I want to know. "Skittles? Pringles? Chocolate chip cookies?"

The thought of it simple excites me. Divine candy is divine. Shit. Now _I_ want it.

"I just need some bread and some cheese. I _really_ like cheese."

Her silly smile warms my heart. We never had cheese at John's. He was allergic. She crawls up against me and puts her head on my shoulder.

"I know you do." I sigh contently like a complete love fool. "Let's get you some cheese."

* * *

An hour later, we arrive back at her temporary place. I'm the mule carrying all the bags, while she's enjoying some cheese crackers. In a few weeks, we'll be allowed to go back home. We don't talk about it. It's too complicated to think about it yet. Brittany doesn't exactly have a home. Her parents live far away from here. She hasn't asked what the plan is. I bet she's scared to know the answer. Honestly? So am I.

I put the bags on the kitchen counter and puff over their weight. Damn. _Just some bread and some cheese_, my ass! She nearly bought everything she saw.

"I like going out for groceries." she states - yet again.

I frown and disagree: "Yeah, trust me: you won't anymore after a while. It becomes a habit and people don't like habits."

Brittany swallows down the last of the cracker and innocently shrugs: "Well, I like it anyway. John never took me out for groceries."

My eyes flare up to her and just like it happens every day anew, I realize she has zero life experience. She doesn't have a clue about normal day routines or boring stuff that will annoy you after a while in this world. She's fresh meat. She's so ready to absorb it all. I can't imagine never having walked into a mall or a restaurant. Those actions seem so unimportant that they don't even show up in my memories anymore.

"So, did you have fun last night?" she curiously asks, busy unpacking.

I went to a bar, with two of my oldest friends. I only stayed for an hour. Brittany didn't join me. She's not comfortable around town at night. I get that, so I'm not going to force her.

"No, not really." I admit.

Brittany stops unpacking and licks her lower lip: "What happened?"

I shrug: "_Nothing_ happened, that's the point. It wasn't fun, it wasn't even interesting. Those people …"

She's patiently waiting for the next part of the explanation.

"I don't like my friends anymore." I conclude after a hesitant moment.

"Excuse me?"

She nearly laughs at me, but quickly discovers it's not a joke. Sadly, I can't phrase it better than I just have.

"I don't like my friends." I shrug.

She walks around the counter to stand face to face with me.

"How can you not like them? They've always been your friends. You talked about them all the time."

I nod. I guess they have. But it doesn't feel that way anymore.

"It's just … I don't like 'em anymore. It's like they've changed, although the actual truth is: I've changed. Anyway … they don't look _good_ on me anymore. We don't talk, we don't laugh about silly things. We just sit there an have shallow conversations. I scare them, because I have this tremendous experience they feel we can't talk about. They have college and Jane's engaged for God's sake. They have entirely different lives."

Brittany nods quietly: "You've grown apart."

I shake my head: "No, we were ripped apart. Now, they've moved on. And I can't blame them."

She bends over to peck me on the cheek for comfort, just as her mother walks in. Brittany doesn't think much of it when she's clingy around me - simply because it's always been this way. But her mother doesn't know we're sleeping with each other. For some reason, we refrain from telling her. Something about the old fashioned woman stops us from even trying. Nothing about her screams gay-friendly. Nothing even whispers gay-tolerant. So I asked Brittany to keep quiet for just a little while, because she deserve a fresh start with her family. Our relationship can't be the breaking point in that.

But she's figuring it out slowly, though. Lately, Brittany's family is doing their best to keep me on a safe distance. At first, I thought it was to allow their daughter to stroll her own path, but now there's this weird vibration about it that they're learning the truth - and really don't like it. Telling you: homophobes.

Brittany looks like an older version of that little Susan in the pictures, but that doesn't change the fact that she's is a stranger to them. I guess Callie had painted a picture of her through the lost years. A beautiful blonde daughter, with long hair and a radiant smile. Except, she's not gay in her ideals. She'll meet a guy soon and marry him. I'm in the way.

"Did you find something good?" the older woman nervously asks.

She's still extremely careful when it comes to Brittany - still getting to know her. The response is excited and positive. My girl's found a way to dive into the family thing quite fast. She loves being surrounded by people who care. And though she had no memories of them, all those years, they feel familiar. I'm glad they do. She deserves that.

"Candies. And cookies. If it's okay by you, I'd like to cook some food for Santana and me. We haven't eaten anything yet."

She unconsciously rubs my hand. So very polite, in desperate search for confirmation and acceptance. Her mother immediately nods.

"You haven't stopped eating since we arrived at the supermarket." I object in a snarky way.

Her tongue comes out to insult me. We have a little, playful moment, but it's quickly interrupted.

"You can do whatever you want, Susan." her mother says.

The loving, enchanted stare at her daughter gets interrupted the second she remembers her new name.

"I'm sorry, I mean Brittany." Callie corrects herself.

Brittany shrugs. It doesn't really matter a lot to her how people call her. As long as they are nice and sweet. She's still new to this world.

"Great, I am making pasta."

And I add with a smile: "With sausages."

She grins contently and pushes her shoulder teasingly against my upper body. I see Callie's flaring eyes directed at our movements.

"So, Mom." she hesitantly starts, clearly getting more used to the M-word every day. "Can Santana stay the night? I want to do a movie marathon."

She _loves_ movies. There are a lot for her to discover. But the next time we're alone, I'm going to introduce her to _Castle_. She has to see that show.

Her mom isn't crazy about the idea, I immediately learn. There's hesitation, but also fear to disappoint her newfound daughter. Callie finds it hard to forbid her anything.

"Your father and I thought we could have a family night later. Just - us and your sister. There's still a lot we need to learn about each other. You can see Santana tomorrow."

On brief second later, she continues: "Or the day after that."

Her eyes flare at me, very self confident about herself. The way she's implying to delay my return makes me smile sarcastically. I am not welcome here, that much is sure. I feel it in every word that comes out of her big mouth. Brittany doesn't pick up on it, though. Her lack of social contact makes her believe in the best of people. But there are people out there who aren't so very different from John. They are just more subtle and less physically violent. And they are called _bitches_.

* * *

My Abuela is at home, chatting with my mother in the kitchen area. They are passionate about whatever it is they're talking about, because they are communicating in loud voices and typical Spanish babbling. It reminds me of some distant memories, that instantly slap me in the face. I walk in after my unpleasant and brief stay at the Pierce's residence and announce my arrival. My mother nearly bursts into tears every single time I remind her I'm back again, for good this time. It's so comforting to see her every single day, you know? It's a dream - it really is. But the old lady, my dressed in black Abuela, isn't as thrilled to see me as the first couple of weeks anymore. I pick up on it bit by bit. She acts distant and disapproving. If only she'd tell me why that is. Because I can't remember saying anything or doing anything that could've pissed her off enough to stop being happy to see me again.

"How was Brittany?" my mother asks very interested.

I am happy she's okay with it all. My father told her, while I stood next to him with my eyes pointed at the ground in anxiety. She didn't react shocked or hysterical. She told me she _knew_. She had known from the first minute in the police station. And she was happy I told her. Happy that I still managed to find happiness after all I've been through.

I grab a glass out of the cabinet in front of me and fill it with water from the tab.

"She's good. Her mom's being a bitch, though." I sigh all annoyed. "She doesn't like me around. I don't get it: I'm an awesome candidate. Fucking homophobe."

My mom bites her lower lip with frustration, even though I'm trying to make her laugh. She hates that I feel this way. She feels that everything in my life should be perfect right now, after all I've been through. But it isn't. Life's never easy.

The kitchen counter presents me the freshly baked cake I smelled from the second I walked in. The scent is overwhelmingly delicious. Just as I'm about to poke my finger into the chocolate frosting, my mother gets up and carefully slaps me on the hand. I must admit: for a second, a glimpse of John's scare resurfaced in my mind. I ignore it and play along with the mother/daughter moment, because she doesn't get how it's like. I put the glass of water down and open my eyes intensely in wonder, totally offended and all.

"That's for later! Don't." she states.

I put both hands up while laughing and apologize: "I'm sorry. I won't touch it."

Mamá, clearly believing _nada_ of what I just said, frowns doubtingly.

"I promise!" I tell her.

That's when I bend over to kiss her on the cheek. Our relationship has gotten so much more open and warm since my return. I like it that way. We've both discovered how short and important life is. You should treasure every single moment. But Abuela just sits at the kitchen table and stares at her fingers, uninterested in this whole playful situation. The thing is, I used to not care about things like that. If someone was mad at me, I'd ignore it until that said person found the courage to come and talk to me. But I've been through a lot of things, and I feel like it's my primal right to be comfortable in my own home.

"So, why are you acting so strange around me?" I drop the bomb.

My grandmother immediately knows I'm addressing her. Her surprised eyes find me.

"I am not acting strange around you." she tells me.

But it's bullshit, because everyone can tell. Even my mother doesn't react too astonished - which indicates that there is in fact something going on.

"Look, Abuela, I get it: it's strange to have me around. I mean, I've been gone for a while, but I'm really, really trying to be a part of it all. To fit in again."

My mother sighs anxiously and walks away to sit down across my grandmother. I can't actually see her face, but her attitude tells me she's begging her mother to shut up.

"I know. I'm just ... I searched for you for months, Santana." the older lady finally speaks up with a voice that's more fragile than I've ever heard.

I can't handle old people being emotional. Ice might be breaking right now and not a person in the room would hear it crack. My grandmother's afraid to look at me in the eye.

My memories have fooled me a lot the passed couple of years. My brain reprogrammed a lot of them into happily, blissful parts of my past, just like John was wonderful at turning a lot of them into a nightmare. But as soon as I was united with them again, I knew - I just _knew_ - the difference between reality and fiction again. I remembered the contrast of my mind's distant, detailed remembrance of my family and the picture - stigma - John planted inside of my head for months. And that tells me my grandmother was never like this. She was caring and loving and she would've done anything for her granddaughter. She would be happy to see me walk in here. But the wrinkles around her eyes make her seem exhausted and disappointed about life. She sighs as she puts some fingers to her forehead to rake up some old memories.

"I swear, I went down every road in this state. I stapled your picture to every single tree I passed, I went on every single television show that wanted me because I really believed it would help getting you back. Because - that's what's a grandma is supposed to, right?"

I believe her as she says it. It brings tears to my eyes. She's pointing her eyes at her fingers, who are nervously playing around with each other. I don't know if I should console her - touch her - hug her. I just know that I'm here again, and unlike my expectations, reality tends to hit me in the face. The thing is, Detective Webb told me it probably was my grandmother's great, public search for me that prevented John from selling me to some sex industry mobsters. She had my face on billboards and milk boxes. My picture got shown on massive television programs. There was a huge reward for the person that could lead to my discovery. It simply was too dangerous for John to use me as a way to get some money, Detective Webb informed me. So he did Brittany a favor and kept me around instead of selling me. It saved me.

"One day, I found your dad crying while going through some of your childhood photo albums and he told me that it might not be such a crazy idea to come to terms with the idea that you were gone. And I was furious at him. I was so, _so_ very mad because he even dared to think about you that way. I knew you were alive _somewhere. _Deep down in my heart I just knew. But months passed and the police found nothing. You disappeared off the face of the earth, according to them, and after waking up one day, I suddenly realized your dad might be right. So more weeks passed and that feeling settled in, despite all the hope I kept deep inside my heart. Every night, before going to bed, I prayed for you to show up the day after. You didn't. I started my life without a granddaughter, but every single stranger's face I saw, I wished for it to be yours."

My heart's about to break out of my chest as I hear her say the words. All that time, John did his best to convince me that nobody was searching for me. And after a couple of months, I started to believe his lies, because my rescue never came. But now my Abuela's here, nearly crying in front of me. I don't know how I can describe it. I can only acknowledge that my eyes are growing wide open and my breathing's getting heavier by the minute. She _missed_ me. She really fucking missed me. And I forgot.

My mom's not moving a muscle. She knows exactly what it feels like, hearing my grandmother say all those things. But my grandmother suddenly sighs.

"And then, that one day you did show up. The police found you and you were brought here and the body I feared to never, ever feel alive again, pressed up against me for a hug. And instead of being relieved and happy, I felt scared and weirded out. Because I have nothing to say to you that will make you feel better. The things those man did to you, they ..."

Abuela starts to cry softly. Mamá puts a hand on hers, across the tablet.

"I'm sorry, Abuela. It's okay now." I sigh comfortingly, swallowing down some tears.

That's when I approach her to wipe the expression of emotion away with my finger, but she backs away surprisingly.

"It's not." she states promptly, seemingly mad.

I frown. How is it not? Her soft, caring and loving eyes turn into sad and angry ones. It scares me enough to step back.

"I wished for _my_ girl back, every single night that you were gone. I just wanted the little, young, careless Santana I helped raise. And then I started to accept that you might have been killed."

She sighs enraged and I don't know why.

"You were dead in my mind and now, like a miracle has happened, you're back. And I should be over the moon about it. But you don't feel like _my_ girl anymore."

She's cutting through me like a knife. All I can do is listen, since I'm simply too surprised to utter words. I _am_ still her girl, she must realize that somewhere deep inside. My mom puts her hands in front of her eyes. They've clearly discussed this before, without me being around. As I'm ready to stutter some words, desperately trying to express some sort of emotion, it becomes clear that my Abuela hasn't finished talking.

"The things they did to you, the person you've transformed into, the feelings you've developed. You feel like a stranger to me. I don't know you anymore. I am not comfortable around you ... It might have been easier if that man killed you instead."

I have never been hit harder than right now. Even John's fists never felt as hurtful as these words. My mom gets up on her feet and ragingly commands her mother to shut up. She can't believe my Abuela just said that. Neither can I.

"How dare you?" she yells. "How dare you say such things to my daughter? Get the hell out of my house!"

She's enraged out of her mind. But I hold her back, as my mind is putting one and one together. It are pieces of a puzzle - Abuela's reaction, her statements, her rejection. A cynical smile takes over my face as I walk over to her, bend forward to face her and shake my head.

"You think whatever happened to me turned me gay, don't you?"

I _knew_ she _knew_. I just had no idea it was such a problem to her. Sure, she's religious, sure it's somehow a bit unconventional in a hispanic family, but I never, ever though that this was the worst thing I could do to her.

"I never raised you to be a lesbian, Santana." Abuela clarifies. "I raised you to be religious and proud and normal. That guy John, he destroyed you. And Brittany as well."

I burst into laughter, because I can't believe what I'm hearing. My mother slams her fist at the table.

"Mamá, shut up." she repeats, before pointing a finger at her own chest. "_I_ raised my daughter. _I_ raised her to be honest and true to herself and proud. And she is. And after all she's been through, she still manages to live up to those standards. So, I think that is extraordinary. _My_ little girl is _extraordinary_. Now get out. Please."

She's trying to prevent this situation from getting even worse. Won't happen. Can't happen. Abuela sighs deeply and eventually gets up on her old feet. That's when she walks out of the house and leaves us both in absolute shock. Well, this has been one homophobic day!

* * *

**so? :D**


	10. Being brave again

**Being brave again**

* * *

A deep, extremely annoyed sigh leaves my worked up body and I feel like punching someone in the face. My skin barely carries clothes. Some panties and a bra. It's chilly, it's uncomfortable, it's degrading.

If I saw myself like this, I'd shake my head in disapproval and start laughing out loud afterwards. Santana Lopez herself is hiding in a _closet, _in the dark. Oh, the irony! Brittany's mom, Callie, came home from work early and my girlfriend made me hide in a _freaking closet_. There are voices coming from the other side of the door. It's theirs.

I can catch up on the nervous trembling in Brittany's voice. Luckily, her newly-found mother can't. I guess all there's left now, is to wait until the woman disappears again. Brittany was already decent again when the noise downstairs began. My clothes were still spread across the floor. They're somewhere around here, in this dark place. She kicked them next to me after her hands pushed me in to hide. I feel so special right now.

Brittany and Callie talk about the day that passed. It's late in the afternoon and Brittany's had some intensive therapy this morning. She called me in a panic to meet her - and instead of talking about what happened, she jumped right at me and screwed my brains out. Not that I'm complaining, but I was going to talk to her afterwards. Because she does this a lot and it's not healthy. Until her mom coming home early happened … and sitting in a closet is the _logical_ result. Boredom slowly starts to overtake me. Goosebumps decorate my body from the fresh breezes that sneak in from underneath the door when a very interesting subject suddenly pops up. It's about a boy her mother is very found of. He and Brittany used to be friends when she was little and he's been visiting the last couple of days. His name is Nicholas, a friend of the family that even moved with them to another state when the family decided to leave everything behind. He's nice, he's decent, but he has to stay away from Brittany or I'll hurt him. Callie would like them to reconnect again, on another level. And though naive Brittany has no idea, I know exactly _why_.

"Look, you probably don't like new things. That's normal. But I'd like you to give this boy a try. You could go on a date, see what it does to you." Callie suggests.

Nice. Now simply ignoring me and making me feel left out isn't good enough anymore. She's actually trying to replace me by handpicking candidates.

_That bitch._

A part of me wants to get up on my feet and kick open the door that's separating me from them. But I decide to give it a second, and listen to whatever it is that Brittany has to say about it. As I said before: I don't want to risk Brittany's good bond with her family. Though Callie's testing me.

"But, Mom … Santana was _new_ to me. And I liked Santana right away. But I don't like this." my girlfriend calmly states.

A proud smile takes over my face, but there's no one to show it to.

"Come on, give the guy a chance." Callie tries a second time. "He's studying to be a doctor. He's a smart man. And he's always supported the family."

I roll my eyes. Of course: it _had_ to be a doctor. Can't my competition be some nerdy guy?

"Mom, I don't like him a lot." Brittany attempts to explain again.

But I hear her mother sighing rather disappointed. She has high hopes for her little girl. She wants her to have a _normal_ life. That means a man, children, picket fences and a dog. It certainly doesn't include a lesbian lover who stayed with her during her abducted years.

"Can you please do this for me? Please?" the older woman begs. "Just give it a try. It's fine if nothing comes out of it. But just _try_. You've never done this before. I feel like it'd be good for you."

Good for you to leave Santana instead of sneaking around with her, Callie means. I roll my eyes and growl quietly. I can't believe this is happening. And I _still_ can't believe I'm in a freaking closet.

"Only if you'll let me see Santana tomorrow." it suddenly reverberates.

A second proud expression takes over my face. But only a split second later, it hits me: is she actually going to agree to a date? Does she even know the meaning of that word? An aching feeling reaches my heart. I crawl up on my feet and put my ear against the wooden door. Maybe she's just trying to prove a point.

"What?" her mother asks in wonder.

"You heard me." her daughter explains. "I want to get out of this house. I need to see her."

Seconds pass and I have no idea what's happening. All there's to experience is sighing and disapproval in the form of noises.

"The two of us can do something fun tomorrow. Together. Forget about that girl, Brittany." Callie suggests, close to sounding like a plea.

At least she's calling her Brittany now. But I close my eyes at the rejection. This woman will never like me. I'll never be good enough for her little girl.

"I can't." Brittany's fragile voice admits, yet very determined. "And I won't."

Again, silence. A turmoil of emotions absorb me. I feel sad and happy and loved - all at once. But this isn't a healthy situation. She's supposed to adjust to a normal life. This sneaking around and hiding shouldn't be part of it. I may stay in the closest, but she's here's as well, with her emotions, her secret thoughts. Brittany's voice resounds again. This time intimate, more emotional.

"You have no idea what we've been through, Mom. That house, those years, what John did to me and to … to Santana especially. You never will, even though you try. I just need to see her. She's the only one that gets it."

The way she puts it seems to leave its mark. No argument against that, right?

"If you go out with this guy?"

It's an ultimatum. Brittany doesn't understand that life is more than lefts and rights. There's tanding up for yourself. There's making your own choices. It's not always what someone else tells you to do.

Somewhere deep inside, I hope she won't take it. She needs to make it perfectly clear that I'm her first choice. That I'm the one she loves. And I'm sure she will. I'm absolutely sure she won't allow her mother to drive us apart. A confident smile curls up the sides of my mouth and I put my hand against the wooden surface. And then she opens her mouth.

"Fine." she sighs.

I blink, probably five times in a row. I can't actually believe what I just heard.

* * *

"So, you're going out with a guy now?"

My snarky comment catches her avoiding look. She bites her teeth and licks her lower lip. Then she innocently shrugs before answering.

"Santana ... It's not like that. It's not going out. I just ... I didn't know what to say." she unconvincingly explains.

"How about fucking _no_?"

I'm clearly agitated. No, _pissed_. She remains on the bed, carefully observing me as I'm getting dressed again. Now I'll have to climb out of a freaking window as well to avoid that stupid woman. How is this day happening?

God, I can't believe she agreed to date this loser. I can't!

I throw my shoe across the room and curse rather loudly. That's when she begs me to keep my voice down. _Her mom might hear_. Well, fuck her mom!

I turn around and point my finger accusingly at her, which immediately scares her. I see it in her eyes.

"You think you're so cute, don't you? You think you're so fucking cute and you can get away with anything?"

She doesn't say a word. All she does is breathe in and out, deep and loud, mouth agape. I suddenly realize how my behavior is scaring us both, so I take a step back and turn away from her. Nothing she can say will make me feel better - and she knows. This is fucked up. This is even borderline close to being funny. But I'm not laughing. The only thing I'm achieving is scaring her, by acting like John's little miniature.

She feels sorry, I see it in her eyes when I turn around again. _God, Brittany_. This girl is going to drive me crazy. I sigh, realizing I'm giving in, and put both arms in my waist.

"Well, so do I!" I admit, simply to come across slightly amused and less angry.

Her anxious eyes soften up and she jumps off the bed to come running for me. Her arms wrap around my fragile body and her mouth immediately puts a soft kiss on the skin of my neck, in a way to thank me for my forgiveness.

"Don't worry. It's just this one time, I promise." she whispers in my ear.

I can't help but feel the shivers running down my spine.

* * *

She went on that first date. After that, she went on a second one. Brittany told me this Nicholas guy was not so bad. He had dark hair and an athletic body. He played tennis and he took her to practice one time. I was so surprised she did that, without me. Starting from then, she liked playing tennis, _with Nicholas_. It felt like I was losing her, even though she promised I was the only one she loved. This Nicholas guy made her feel safe, though. He was a warm person, someone who taught her new things. The painful truth is that he was a great catch. That poor, kidnapped Brittany got treated rather correctly by him. Finally, a male figure that didn't seem to scare her as much as John. Someone to change her point of view on men. I would've been a monster to take that away from her.

Her mother loved him, her father didn't seem to mind his presence in the house. Her sister didn't care. Honestly, Leslie seemed to like me. She was the only one.

Nicholas attended the family dinners. He stayed for movie nights when my visits got declined. Before I realized it, Brittany actually started to like him. And I remained the dirty little secret. The person that stood in between. Telling her family the truth about us scared her, especially since she discovered how my Abuela reacted. She wasn't ready to lose the relatives she just met. And I couldn't be the one to force her.

It all happened so fast - too fast to let it sink in. And there was nothing I could do about it. I couldn't deny her from seeing him. She had to discover things like that on her own terms. She had to pick me over him by choice. John had told her what to do for years. I couldn't do that to her. Even if it hurt me, I needed to make sure she was certain about her feelings.

* * *

It's Thursday afternoon, about a week before we are supposed to leave the safe houses. After another therapy session, I end up in her bathroom. She's busy brushing her teeth when I ask about one of her recent dates. Brittany doesn't like to talk about it. She thinks it is awkward. It isn't, really. It's simply _horrible_.

"How was therapy?" she switches subjects, like that's a better idea.

I smirk: "Same old. Terrible stories, tears, emotions. … Would make a great movie."

She softly smiles to herself in the mirror. This girl knows exactly what I mean. She spends more time on that sofa than I do.

"He had me talking about that time he nearly kicked me to death in the backyard. I thought I had forgotten about it. About how it felt." I stop to swallow for a second. "I was wrong."

My fingers subconsciously stroke the left side of my ribcage. It hurt for weeks after he did that to me. She puts down her toothbrush and flushes her mouth before turning around to stare at me.

"Are you okay?"

I refuse to play the victim. Especially around her. She had ten years of his crap.

"What have you been up to lately?" I change the subject after shrugging, unconvincingly.

She plays along, lets it rest for now and lingers her finger over the sink.

"Nothing much. I have been building up this interest in ecologically responsible ways of using natural resources in order to save the planet."

Her rambling results in me understanding nothing of it. This girl and her crazy-ass interests. Just last week, it was photography.

"You what now?" is the only logical thing that leaves my mouth.

She pulls me closer to her and kisses the side of my neck. That always gets me.

"Yeah, I've read a lot about it on the internet and in books today _and_ yesterday. It's really interesting. In fact: next time you plan on taking a shower, you should totally call me."

To me, that just sounds a bit provocative, but just in case she's really serious about it, I refrain from giggling.

"Why would I do that?" I ask curiously.

"So I can join you … You know, save water." she smirks, feeling very pleased about her comment.

Did she just actually make a joke? Her hands slip past my waist in order to hug me suggestively, which makes me chuckle. Her eyes are so enchanting. And her smile - oh, God, her smile is the prettiest. She bends over to me and nibbles the flesh in my neck. It tickles like crazy. This girl _drives_ me crazy. We face each other again a second later, and that's when I sigh all confused and flabbergasted.

"Where are we going, Brittany?" I ask, desperately aching the answers.

Our future is so unsure. I always thought getting out of the fortress would be our biggest challenge. But here we are, unsure about anything going on at the moment. And next week will be here soon. Too soon.

She doesn't answer me for a couple of seconds. All she does is stare deeplyn into my eyes. Then, suddenly, she kisses me intensely and filled with love. I can feel it. I know the taste of love.

"I'm going wherever you are going." she tells me.

* * *

She doesn't know, simply because I didn't tell, but I talked about Brittany during my therapy session today. The more time is passing since the day we left the fortress, the more insecure she seems to be feeling. Whenever I'm not around, she calls or texts me - and it is dead cute how much she thinks of me. But I know it isn't all in the name of love. It's also fed by fear and anxiety. It's the feeling of being helpless and scared. The only exception seems to be Nicholas. _Urgh_.

The first few weeks entering society were a pleasant change. She reunited with her long-lost family, she discovered the world she had only read about in books and was so curious about.

But that was nothing more than a subtle distraction from what was actually happening: she got taken away from her _actual_ life - a life that John forced upon her, but that doesn't change the fact that it was the only one she knew. She was used to living in a glass house, with imaginary friends and an abusive father figure. And nobody ever asked if she wanted to trade that for something we believe to be normal. For her, that life with John, it was completely normal. And although I immediately figured out what a bastard he was, she didn't have a clue until I started pointing it out. She thought of him as caring and compassionate, since during rare moments, he really was. He was the only person she knew, so there was nobody to compare him with. And that fortress, it was her home. She took care of it with an admirable passion.

She'll never admit it to anyone else but me, but she misses it there. She misses the garden we carefully mothered, planting crops and flowers. She misses the room with the bed we slept in for months. She misses John, because even though he was a complete tool to me, he took care of her - like when she burned herself. He stayed with her until she fell asleep that night - I saw it with my own eyes. And she can never tell a living person, because they'll think she's gone mad. So I'm here. I'm here, keeping a close eye on her. I'm the only remaining connection to John and the fortress - to that old life she's lost. And her fingers are grasping on to my presence so tight and intense that they are starting to leave scars on my skin. All simply because she's afraid to give it up.

I told my therapist how concerned I am about it. I don't want to be the person she _thinks_ she loves. I want to be the person she _wants_ to love. It isn't just about her. That's why I'm allowing her this shit going on with Nicholas. I can't forbid her to see him. I won't. But I want to. What if one day, she kisses him? Or he kisses her? What if she'll like it?

I want me to drive her crazy when I'm around her, not when I'm _not_ around her. I want her to text me whenever she feels like she's missing me, not because she's missing her old world. I want her to love me for who I am, not for the time I've spend with her.

My therapist asked me what I think all my worrying means. At first, not a single answer to that could be formulated in my mind.

The strange thing is, even though you think you're talking _with_ a counselor, the truth is you're actually talking _to_ a counselor. They are always distant and observing. Basically, you pay them a great amount of money to ramble about your feelings and conflicting thoughts. So after a half an hour talking to myself, in the presence of a person holding on to a pen and a green notebook, I realized I'm afraid. I'm afraid that I'm slowly starting to destroy her. Bit by bit. Every answered call and immediate showing up whenever she demands at a time takes me there. Because that's what I do. Brittany freaks out and she has only one person to talk to. Me. And basically, she's not processing. She's not letting go.

My therapist didn't comment on that. It's on me to figure out whatever it is that I'm feeling. But sometimes, a girl just needs a helping hand. Because nothing in my mind is rational when it comes to Brittany. My whole heart knows just how much I'm in love with her. It bursts with rainbows and musical miniature hearts. It's overpowering every reason going on inside my mind.

And truth be told, although I really want to express my concerns about it to Brittany, I'm scared shitless, really.

Because what if I'm right?

* * *

God damned, John. Even now you're dead, you are still capable of destroying everything.


	11. The bitch returns

**The bitch returns**

* * *

It's seven p.m. when the doorbell rings some sound into the house. It can't be my parents. They left for a dinner date an hour ago, and I saw my mother sticking the keys in the left side pocket of my dad's coat. I'm very attentive like that. Something I've learned during my stay at the fortress. Nothing escapes my eye, an old survival trick I can't shake off.

I told them I'd be okay for a few hours on my own. It wouldn't be the first time, yet they act like it is, every time they leave me behind. The truth is I enjoy the silence once in a while. It drove me insane in the basement of the house I was being kept by John, but here … I can smell my mother's baking, my fresh clothes, my father's liquor on the cabinet. It's peaceful.

The door cam quickly reveals my visitor. It's Brittany, looking distracted and confused. Her hair's all messy and panic is flaring from her eyes. Ten seconds later, she's in front of me, shivering like it's been freezing like crazy. Except it's not. It's warm and pleasant. Spring has arrived, I can taste it in the air.

"What happened?" I ask, naturally concerned.

This is a panic attack. I recognize it immediately. She's had a few of those. Mostly, they pass after a few minutes. She calls or texts me and I run over to talk to her. It has a comforting effect, even though half the time I'm not even sure what it's about.

"Next week is here tomorrow." she tells me, completely out of breath.

It's a riddle, but the meaning isn't lost to me. We're moving out of the safe houses. It came so much faster than expected. So yes, 'next week' will arrive tomorrow. Her parents want her to come with them, back to the new place they are living. It makes sense, when you think about it. Except what about us? My girl doesn't know what to do. I'll be here, with my family. I don't want to be apart from them again. Brittany's afraid to leave me. And I'm scared as well. We're both trapped.

There's not even a chance to respond, because she throws herself at me, kissing me rather aggressively on the mouth. I try to push her back, but she insists on holding on to me tightly. Her fingernails are hurting my skin. She's panicking - and this is her attempt to hold on to her present life. She pushes me up against the wall and that's her touch softens.

"I told my mom I went to the gym. So I better lose a lot of calories the next hour." she whispers in my mouth.

Even though I shouldn't, the vibration of her words turns me on massively. She takes my hands and leads me to my bedroom, where she leaves me standing at the right side of the bed. With my back against her body, my mind surprisingly takes over again. Whatever we're doing isn't healthy. Sex won't solve whatever's going on right now. But I feel her fingers lingering over my skin. And her lips touch my shoulder from behind.

"Don't …" I whisper, but she simply doesn't listen.

She kisses me again, moving up my neck this time and I close my eyes as a sensational feeling starts pounding somewhere in my stomach. No way in hell I can resist this.

I let her do whatever it is she wants to me. After a few more soft and teasing licks on my skin, she starts to undress me. Her eyes study the shape of my body in wonder. Her movements are so slow and careful that I feel like a living masterpiece for a while. Then, we make love. Sweet and passionate love. She plays my body like a professional.

After we're done, she makes me drop my head on my pillow like an exhausted piece of flesh and a collection of faint muscles. But the panic seems to still be there. Just as I'm about to get up on my recovered feet to get us both some water, she straddles me again and starts kissing me immediately. I don't exactly understand what's going on, but it somehow reminds me of that first time ever, at John's. That first time she crawled on top of me and we slept together. It's just as desirable, just as intense. Just as innocent and desperate. I push her back, but she's refusing to let go of me.

"Just let me." she begs with a shaking voice.

I worryingly frown and stare at her scared face. It's lit up by arousal, by confusion and the determination to make this thing happening.

The pace of our natural routines in bed changes and our sexy time turns into a hefty and emotional roller coaster. She pushes me up against the bed head so hard that my back will be bruised in the morning. I let her, it's disturbingly epic. To be honest, I'm ultimately building up to experiencing one of the best orgasms I've ever had. And all the while, she has her eyes open. She stays focussed on me, on my moaning, my joyful grimaces and my borderline-experiencing-pain expressions. A whole hour later, she's got in out of her system, and I'm nothing more than a puddle of sex. God, this was exhausting. But I'm not complaining.

"Are you okay now?" I ask her, panting extensively.

She doesn't even deny that there was something wrong. My fingers are going through her hair tenderly as she has her head placed on my bare breasts, listening to my heartbeat. It finally slowed down again.

"I need to tell you something." her voice announces.

She sounds scared and sad. I don't like that about her. My fingers keep playing with the blonde locks, comforting her. Hers are tracing little circles on my skin, touching me so carefully and subtly I almost can't feel a thing. Before continuing, she lets go of me surprisingly, to sit up straight and grab her underwear. She puts it back on and picks up her shirt from the ground. As she's buttoning up, she drops her head and sighs deeply, making it sound like a painful moan.

I push myself up on my elbow and run my fingers across her back. That's when she tells me.

"This won't happen again." she whispers, without looking at me.

It makes me laugh out loud: "I can't accept that."

But I quickly learn it's not a joke. She puts a hand in front of her eyes and sniffs up some emotions.

"I'm leaving tomorrow, Santana. I decided that I need to stay with my family."

Her words break my heart immediately. Part of me knows that this is the natural decision to make, but the bigger part of me had hoped and expected her to chose me over them. To chose love. She has struggled with this for weeks now, not being able to make a decision. And now she has - and it doesn't involve me. It's slapping me in the face - it's hurting me in the core.

"And Nicholas is coming with you." I figure.

"Santana … That's not even relevant …"

Sure it is, because the way she just turned her head at me all annoyed is a confirmation. Suddenly, I notice the massive tears flooding down her cheeks. I'm too shocked to be mad at her, to be honest. I don't feel anything. It's all numb. My feet take me out of the bed and I put on some comfortable clothes. While it all seems like a faded nightmare, my body paces up and down the width of the room. She just sits there and stares at me.

"Do you love him?" I finally ask her.

She frowns all offended and nearly smirks: "What?"

Her reaction pisses me off.

"It's English. You understand what I just said._ Do you love him_?"

Brittany gets up as well and shakes her head agitatedly.

"That doesn't matter." she claims.

A silly smile filled with disbelief contradicts every single thing I've ever believed in before I met her.

"Are you fucking kidding me? That's all that matters, Brittany." are the words that flow directly from my heart.

I sound like a love fool. But my reaction, however surprisingly calm I seem to remain, provokes the opposite with her.

"Yeah, well, you know what, Santana? John used to make me believe a lot of things. And they all turned out to be lies. So ... fuck off, will you? I need to find my own truth for once."

She's never been this rude to me before, and she knows it. Suddenly, she takes a breath to calm down. This whole situation has her fucked up like crazy. She puts on her sweatpants and folds her hands in front of her mouth. Her eyes are closed, in an attempt to organize her thoughts. And then there's me, feeling ready to jump out of the window.

"You have to understand, Santana, that I really want a normal life. I got raised by a monster, treating me like one myself and I didn't know any better. I thought of love as something imaginary - something they invented to make movies more beautiful. I never really saw it in real life, so I got used to it being this illusion. And all that time I was in that house, John told me how much my family hated me, how they sold me, how they never wanted to see me again. How I was lucky he wanted me, because nobody else did."

I know this story. She had told it to me in our bedroom and at the time, she seemed okay with it. It's because she didn't know any better back then. Now she does.

"I cried for a hundred days straight, trying to accept that. But the sad truth is: after a while I got used to the idea. And then, suddenly, out of the blue I met you. And yes, you made my life rather fucking wonderful. And yes, you made me feel very, _very_ loved. You chased away that idea about love being fictional. And I'd never, _ever_ dreamt that a simple smile of yours could make my heart skip a beat. About how fragile and still undefinably comfortably I am around you."

This is the most beautiful confession of love I've ever heard. But nothing about it feels right. Because if she loves me this much, why is she leaving?

"You showed me love, Santana. You thought me what it feels like. The purity of it. How delicious and undefinable and completing it can be. Nobody can ever take that away from us. But finally - _finally_ - I'm with my family again. People that have been stolen from me over a decade ago. And it turns out they _don't_ hate me. They _didn't_ want to sell me. They searched for me for years without me knowing. After all that horror I went through, they want nothing more than my life to be normal - to be part of their circle. And I am so very scared to lose them again, Santana."

She rushes over to me and as she grasps on to my hand, I notice the terrified look in her eyes. That complete and undeniable agony.

"I am so afraid to cry for a hundred days again, that I can't risk it. I can't risk letting them down, because maybe, one day they _will_ hate me, just like John predicted. Because I'd stay here. Because of us. Because I close my eyes to try and forget about you, and still all I see _is_ you. But you know how my mom is. She doesn't approve of this."

Her speech seems to slowly approach it's inconsistent ending. I wish I could say anything to make her stop, but her words cut me to the bone. There is not a single emotion flowing through me right now that will make me seem like a not-terrible person. Because all I want is to keep her with me. I want to beg her, to throw myself at her feet. She puts her trembling fingers on my face and bows her forehead against mine.

"So, you see ... you have to see ... I need to be normal. I need to feel normal for _once_. Just for a moment - for a brief while. Not just for them, but for me as well. I need to know how it feels. Or how it could feel. I have to prove John wrong."

I nearly choke in the silence she calls upon me. I've never seen her this vulnerable before, not in all those months we've spend together. Her eyes blast out the fear that hides deep inside her heart. All of a sudden, I understand. I understand that she doesn't even know what being normal is - she has no clue how normality works. It's what I've been wondering for a while now. And I was right.

She needs this right now, in order to be able to breathe as a regular person again. She has an entire new life to adapt to. One I've missed and nearly forgot during all that time. But she didn't even get that far: John just took her away before she learned some important life lessons and acceptable ways to interact and open yourself up to people. Suddenly, I think about how I'd feel when I'd lose my mom and dad again. What that would do to me. It makes me sick to my stomach.

I feel her skin on mine. I feel her breathing passing my neck. A lost, hurting tear wanders her left cheek. My index finger picks it up - it caresses the softness of her. I realize that she might be right: maybe I'm not healthy for her right this moment.

I believe that people, who are destined to be together, might find each other at the wrong moment in their lives. Maybe this is one of those situations. Maybe she needs to grow and discover who she really is, before she can cope with the fact that we're supposed to last a life time together. Maybe, I need to back off and accept reality: she doesn't want to be with me with all of her heart right now. There are more important things happening in her life at this moment.

* * *

We're at the front door, saying our goodbyes without talking. I inhale the sky that feels like a million knives cutting through my throat. I can't speak, I can't even cry right now. Not a word has passed my lips the last half an hour. We just each sat on the other side of my bedroom, staring at each other.

I bend over to kiss her softly on the mouth. She squeezes her eyes shut in pain. She tastes like rainbows and candy sticks and I try to memorize it. After that, it's time. Time to surrender. I can't believe she's going away. I can't cope with the idea.

"Don't forget me, Brittany." I beg.

It's the only thing I'll ask of her. All my other desires would make me a selfish bitch. She starts to cry uncontrollably, but I decide that nothing I could do would make her feel better. Her lips crumble under my touch and I taste tears I never wished to have seen. A taxi is waiting right next to us, waiting to take her away from me, maybe forever.

My body turns around and lets go of the girl it loves the most. The footsteps bring me further away from her. And before I know it, I don't even feel her near anymore. There's the sound of loud crying, more like howling and the actual breaking of a heart. Then there's the closing of a door - and the humming of a starting engine. But I don't turn around anymore. Because if I did, I'd try to stop her. And I'm not allowed.

I'm used to being a selfish person - that's just who I am. But not when it comes to Brittany. For her health and emotional stability, I'm capable of sacrificing all of me. And that's exactly what I'm doing right now.

* * *

I reach my front door and find support against the wooden frame. That's when the infatuation finally appears to deteriorate. I'm left with a body that has lost the ability to cry, apparently. But suddenly, a few footsteps reverberate behind me. My heart, that I swore had stopped beating the second she told me she was going to leave me, suddenly jumps with hope. Maybe she changed her mind. Maybe she …

But I turn around and find myself even more shocked than I was a second before. There, in front of me, is the bitchy, blonde ghost from my past, nervously holding on to the purse that's wrapped over her left shoulder. My jaw drops and the hope is gone, yet a strange feeling of joy replaces that heartbroken feeling.

"Quinn." I utter with some difficulty.

As I say her name out loud, I flash back through some of my worst nights in captivity, when all I could think of was her. And now she's here. It's really her. The girl hasn't changed a bit. Still the spitting image of my best friend in high school. And she's back. Out of all the days, tonight.

Her eyes are staring at me in wonder. I can tell she never expected to see me again, _ever_. With her mouth agape, she has refrained from approaching me when she was ten feet away from me. A nice, blue dress and cute, yellow ballerina's - that's all she's wearing. She's trying to mouth some words, but fails terribly. I know the feeling.

Being the courageous one, I'm the first to close the gap between us. The closer I get, the more anxious she appears. I'm literally a ghost. I've resurrected from the dead. Her green eyes are wide and she forgets to blink for a disturbingly long time.

And then they arrive, her first words, wrapped in a nervous tone and filled with emotions: "You stupid bitch."

She makes me laugh while crying and I dive in her embrace.

It happens. Coming hope all makes sense right now.

* * *

Quinn and I talked all night long. We didn't sleep, we didn't eat. All we did was talk. She asked me how I was and I told her the truth: I had no idea. Now that I finally started feeling better again, Brittany's departure happened. I went back to square one.

And after telling her the story of what happened a few hours before, she skipped the part about me being gay, which was comforting for once, and asked me the obvious question: "Why didn't you stop her?"

My mind had been made up and I remained rather convinced about my decision. Nothing about me being with her would mean true progress in Brittany's development in this big, scary world. I'd just hold her back. Besides, if I had asked, she would've agreed in a heartbeat. She would have stayed, here, with me, _for_ me - despite all the desires she had just confessed to me about being normal for a change. I'm the only person that could have made her change her mind. And that wouldn't have been right.

"I can't be the one who's begging her to stay. I can't be that person." I answered her.

Quinn didn't understand.

"John always told her what to do. Now she expects that from me. It's not healthy. I want her to be healthy. To be independent."

Quinn frowned nervously, thinking it through. Occasionally, she put her fingers on mine, to make sure I was really, really there. My soft expression promised her I was.

"But you love her, no?"

I smiled sillily and nodded, not even embarrassed to admit it to her: "That's why I let her go. And if she really loves me, this will all be over someday."

My old friend sat across me in the living room. She and her blue dress were a perfect match. But it had been over a month since I got out. Nearly two. The only person apart from my family I wished to have seen after I left the fortress was her. And she wasn't there.

"Why didn't you come back earlier, Quinn? Why are you here, now, and not that very first day?" I finally dared to ask.

She owed me an explanation. It wasn't college. It wasn't a money issue to grab a plane and fly home. She wasn't that kind of girl.

"I was scared." she admitted, staring at her fingers instead of me. "Because I've had this life and you didn't."

But I started laughing, rather than feeling intrigued: "You weren't scared. You feel guilty."

Of course she did. I thought about her last words a million times, the first months I was being kidnapped. They flashed through my head non stop, even while sleeping.

_What's the worst thing that could happen, right?_

She said it just before I left. That last practice. And it sounded so silly and innocent. Her voice cracked as she tried to come up with an appropriate apology. I stopped her just in time, cupping her hands with mine.

"You didn't know this was going to happen, Quinn. It's not your fault."

She disagreed with me and shook her head aggressively.

"But I let you leave all by yourself because I was drying my stupid hair."

I forced her to look me in the eye and smiled: "Listen to me. And listen well. Never have I ever blamed you. I blame John. He's the one who grabbed me."

She wasn't feeling redeemed with my answer, though: "But if I would've been there-"

"He probably would've taken you as well." I interrupted her.

She heaved a deep sigh and nodded, finally getting the picture. Her pretty green eyes were swollen from hidden tears. Something told me she was convinced that the situation was a dream. I got up from my seat and sat down right next to her. That's when I put my arms comfortingly around her and hugged the shit out of her. I needed a friend right now. And she's about the best one I could get.

* * *

**_So, I know I'm probably going to receive a few angry comments about them breaking up._**

**_But I'd like to explain that to all of you if you let me._**

**_See, this story is - obviously - a Brittana fic. But first and foremost, it's a story about two girls being kidnapped and tortured and then rescued. There's a lot more to this than a regular Glee episode would drag them through. _**

**_Brittany is a young puppy that never got the chance to discover the world. Santana has been realizing that the last couple of chapters. Now that Brittany feels like building a life with her family, since the person she always thought to have been her family (John) died, it's a more important issue than her pure, simple, undoubtable love for Santana. Because the Santana part is the only easy thing to her right now. _**

**_Santana gets that. She's always been very considerate when it comes to Brittany. So for now, she lets her. Because even though Santana feels like Brittany is being too attached, she's just as bad. Everything since their departure has been about each other. _**

**_The next few chapters will be about BOTH of them learning to be normal again. Living and working on progress in their own life. Because it's very important that you know where you are in life if you wish to spend it with someone. _**

**_SIDE NOTE: This decision of Brittany has NOTHING to do with Nicholas, you'll learn later on, this is purely a choice made out of love for her sister and her mom and dad. Having Nicholas around just makes it easier to fool her mother. _**

**_So, don't be mad :D Just, relax, I'll give you a new chapter really - really soon. And you'll get it._**

**_BYE ;D_**

**_x_**

**_Snicky_**


	12. Moving on

_Hey, there!_

_This is a little (well, not so little) in-between-chapter about what's happening with Santana now that Brittany's away._

_It'll be useful in the future, you'll see. _

* * *

**Moving on**

* * *

Brittany left and weeks passed. It was like she had never been there. My life started to unfold rather pleasingly - contrary to all expectations. Sure, I missed her with every minute that went by, but I kept myself busy by studying for my G.E.D. tests … I passed. Also, I started writing some pages about my experiences in the house - in order to keep my publicist happy. I had a book deal, as you remember, and my therapist said it might be therapeutic to pen my emotions and memories down. It wasn't. It kept me up at night, reliving all what had happened in my mind. About what John did to me.

I like the writing part, though. If I had discovered anything during my captivity - apart from my experienced level of lesbianism - it was my love for books.

Luckily, there was Quinn. She and I reconnected on a whole new level. She found a way to deal with the guilt and decided to stay around as long as possible to help me with things. College could wait for her. Economics wasn't her thing anyway, she had her mind set on becoming a lawyer now. So there was time to waste, while somehow taking care of me.

We went out shopping, we talked about the possibilities, a future. Things started getting better. Even Brittany disappeared from my mind every now and then. It was an improvement. Every day felt so. Slowly, I had good hopes for leaving it all behind.

But just as I was determined to quit counseling, I found my traumas tying a rope around my neck again at a bar late at night. As I was dancing and having fun with Quinn, a guy appeared in front of me. He was just an ordinary man, but he had brown, greasy hair. Familiar hair. His body was skinny, his eyes piercing. He had this look, you see. A look I'd seen before. The person reminded me of John, just for a brief split-second. And within that same second, I screamed both internally as out loud and ran for the exit. Quinn, not really sure about what was happening, followed me in a panic. She held me in her arms while I cried for a half an hour on the sidewalk. _Then_ she called a taxi, _then_ she took me home. The next day, I went back to therapy.

* * *

Spring has passed and summer's here when I start counting how many days since I last saw Brittany. I lost track. I never thought that would happen.

There's the people who surround me every day, who make it easier for me to cope with this phase of my life. I've made new friends in the old neighborhood we moved back to. But there's nobody like her. Not a single person. Nobody who can actually relate.

I wonder how she is, what she's doing, who she's with. We're not calling or texting anymore. I've decided to give her some space. Quinn thinks it's a wise decision. It's bold and brave, she says. I know exactly what it is: lonely. The first few days, we couldn't help ourselves. We kept in touch, anxiously grasping on to the best of our memories. But I asked her to forget about me for a while, because whatever it was that we were doing, wasn't healthy. It wasn't anything near progress. In order to heal, we had to be apart for some time. To figure ourselves out - our lives, our expectations, our desires. She listened.

The thing I do, though, is stare at her picture late at night. My eyes absorb the beautiful perfection of her face and the way the wind was playing with her hair when the picture was shot. It helps to calm me down, even on the worst days.

Today is … not a _bad_ day. Quinn, Mamá and I went out for lunch and I had dinner with Papá at a restaurant, but that's about the only thing that happened. The rest of it was dedicated to writing. Writing and rereading and rewriting. And reliving it all.

I have this little laptop I drag around all the time. Whenever I feel inspired, my body sits down wherever it is I'm at and my fingers start flying across the keyboard. Almost fifty pages. Fifty pages of rambling and terrible memories. Words that describe how much hurt and pain John has caused. How the touch of his feet against my stomach felt, time after time. And the way he looked at me with his threatening eyes each and every single time I opened up my big mouth. But there's no consistency, no actually red wire to keep my chapters glued together. I'll have to work on that …

Still, I'm so glad today is over. I'm ready to put my head on this blue pillow and fall asleep instantly. Except that's not what happens. I'm in bed and I remain wide awake, staring at the ceiling. I still feel numb, after all those weeks. Numb, yet capable of missing her. So I don't fall asleep and I count the midnight hours as they pass. This happens every time I go to bed. A new habit, so to speak.

After a while, the sound of the vibration modus of my phone surprises me. I'm agitated, because I finally started feeling sleepy. I push myself up on my elbow and shove away the hairs in front of my face.

_Blocked_. A private number. _Great_! Hesitantly, I pick up and ask who's there. A few seconds pass and there's not a single sound to be heard. All I recognize, is soft breathing. Breathing that's engraved in my memory like the taste of sugar. I sit up straight and turn on the light. My bare feet touch the ground. It's cold.

"Brittany." I finally say, filled with hope, letting her know I figured it out.

I'm up on my feet now, walking towards the window. She sighs on the other side of the telephone and whispers my name in return. It makes me shiver for a couple of moments. I haven't heard her for so long. I forgot how a single word of hers can make my heart stop.

"I don't like my new therapist." she tells me, like that's the first thing that'll pop up in an everyday conversation.

"Then get another one." I wisely comment.

She smirks through the phone: "It's the third one already."

Again, a deafening silence. There's a million things I want to say, but nothing about them feels important enough to screw up this moment of intimacy. So I open my mouth a few times and shut it right away.

"I miss you." she admits with a childish undertone.

I'm happy she does. I had hoped for it.

"I miss you, too." is my honest, yet shaky response. "But I need you to do this. I need you to heal."

Brittany knows what I'm talking about. She figured out I feel responsible for her continuing determination to remain submitted. And even though she loudly protested against it, I guess she finally figured out the truth behind it all.

Instead of answering, we waste another few dollars on silence. Perfect, tensed silence.

"You shouldn't call me, you know that." I sigh, trying to add a funny comment. "Imagine what your _mom_ will say."

She doesn't even think before replying: "I con't care. I had to hear you voice tonight."

Her words warm my heart and that's enough to make me stop talking. I'd like to whisper an _I love you_. But it wouldn't be appropriate. It wouldn't help at all.

My eyes are drawn towards the moon high up in the sky. There aren't many clouds surrounding it. Wherever she is right now on this earth, the moon is with her as well. That makes me feel closer to her than I expected. Like we're connected, somehow.

"Good night, Brittany."

My soft and tired voice makes her sigh. She sniffs up some courage and probably nods on the other side of the phone.

"Good night, Santana."

I hang up the phone and stare at the moon for a while longer. That's when I decide it's worth the fight.

* * *

Due to everything I've been through, I've decided to give my Abuela another chance. I feel like my sexuality shouldn't stand in the way of a relationship with my only remaining grandparent. This feud just feels like another way of being kidnapped. It stops me from truly enjoying the newfound things. Because I can't stand her being mad at me. This woman has baked me cookies for nineteen years straight. It's not her fault that she's religious. It's not her fault that I fell in love with Brittany. That's why I'm here, in the middle of her ancient home up North with a freshly baked cake in my hands. My mom's standing right next to me, still pretty upset about the things that have been said. They haven't talked since then. But I made her promise she'd try. For me. And so she will.

"Hi, Abuela."

We both make it a big deal to completely ignore the fact that I'm mourning Brittany's departure. That girl doesn't exist to her. And as long as we keep silent about it, the sin isn't present. That's good enough for her, apparently. The older woman leads us to the living room.

After some uncomfortable minutes, we both get back to the point where I'm a normal granddaughter and she's a normal grandmother. Things that were said seem to have never been said. My mother's remaining rather skeptically. She just sits there and watches our interaction. We talk, eat the delicious cake my mother made, have some coffee and gossip about the neighbors. Things go wonderfully well, until at one point, she starts asking about Quinn, and if she has a boyfriend yet. I smirk and squeeze my eyes. Quinn's too busy hanging out with me to think about boys. It's refreshingly miraculous.

"She just got back from New York, Abuela. I think she's taking a break from dating after breaking all the boys' hearts in that city."

She nods with a thoughtful look taking over her face. A short hesitation happens, then she bravely dares to ask: "What about you?"

My heart stops pounding in an instant as my mother's eyes flare up anxiously.

"What do you mean, _what about me_?" I snort.

Is she seriously asking about my love live? Abuela shrugs in an awkward way and completely avoids eye contact with me. I hear my heart begging. Begging she'll be smarter than this. _Don't go there, Abuela. Please, don't. It was going so well._

"Well … Do you have a boyfriend? I guess you're over that phase, now the girl's got a boyfriend herself." she says.

Oh, but she went there. And she called Brittany 'the girl'. And she called that Nicholas her _boyfriend_? Surprisingly, I remain calm and I softly smile, trying to find a way to make it clear for once and for all. Maybe I'm just too offended to act mad.

"I will never be over that _phase_, Abuela. Simply because it's not a phase. It's a big part of who I am. Plus, I'll never be over _that girl_. And her name is Brittany."

But my grandmother bends her head and puts some fingers to her forehead. As much as she's trying, she simply can't understand. She can't get how a girl could be in love with a girl. It's a sin. It's against everything she's ever believed in.

"That guy ruined you, Santana. He turned you gay by abusing you so much."

She acts as if he sexually abused me and gave me an aversion of men. But out of all the things John did, that's the one he never even thought of, I guess. He never tried to inappropriately touch me. Even while I was changing, he'd turn his head away from me.

She knows that. I explained it elaborately to avoid speculation and unresolved questions. So how does she even dare to imply that punching me in the face or kicking me in the back _destroyed_ me sexually?

Suddenly, it hits me. If she's not trying, why should I? My mom, sighing all annoyed at my side, predicted this. She was right. This is just another version of a person mentally abusing me.

"How dare you say such a thing, Abuela!?" I snap. "John didn't make me gay. He couldn't if he tried. The only thing he might have accomplished was that I hated every single person in the world for a while. And that I don't trust people as easily anymore. And maybe, I'm scared that someone else will hurt me as much as he hurt me. But that's not why I hate him. I hate him because he locked me up in that house for months and he introduced me to Brittany. And I had nowhere else to go, so I got to know her and fell in love with her, just like every other person in the world would, because you know why? She's a _wonderful_ person. She's innocent and good and brave. She's the sole reason why I'm still capable of believing in the goodness of people. She made me accept who I am and just when I got there, that masochistic bastard killed himself and they took her away from me. And now she's gone and my heart is breaking every single minute when I'm not around her. All there's left is Mamá and Papá and … and _you_, who can't be happy with who I am and the fact that I made it out there - alive and healthy."

She still isn't looking at me. That's when I get up on my feet and frown deeply offended.

"Do you even realize that? I'm _alive_ and _healthy_, Abuela. And yet, you can't seem to live with the fact that I found someone to love. That I'm still capable to love after all."

She shakes her head unconvincingly: "That's not love, my child. That's PTSD."

Her assumptions about psychology shock me. All I can do is laugh about it. Mock her.

"Brittany is _not_ a result of PTSD."

But as much as I'm trying, I rapidly figure out that my words will never effect her. Why the hell am I even trying? Why am I still putting up this fight? Everything's finally looking up. I can't allow her to bring me down again. Someone once did that to me. I have a choice now.

"I don't know who you are anymore, Santana." Abuela silently admits.

Something about her behavior tells me she's just as disappointed in herself as she is in me. Maybe she thinks she brought me up wrong? That his is her fault. _Poor_ victim in all of this. _Poor_ old, Abuela. Introducing: Sarcasm 1.0., Santana Lopez style.

"I am still me, Abuela. But it's convenient for you to convince yourself differently. Because that way, you don't have to deal with me being gay. And you know what? That's fine by me. You told me, a while ago, that you searched for me for months. I believe that. I believe you loved me enough to search the entire country for me. And I came back, despite the odds, unharmed and I am still able to be happy, which is rare, as well as great, and magnificent. Now, if me being gay makes you hate me so much, even though I am _back_ ... Well, that just makes _you_ the monster. Even John had more compassion than you."

An exhausted sigh makes me realize how fed up I am with all of this. My hands get thrown in the air and that's when I decide to just walk away. Without saying another word, I turn around to exit the room. My mom, sitting on the couch silently, seems sad and disappointed about the discussion. A sad tear crosses her right cheek.

Abuela raises her voice one more time, though, to demonstrate her self-assumed higher rank in this family: "If you walk out of here, you'll never be allowed to come back, Santana."

My body freezes the second her sentence ends. My hand's on the doorknob, which reminds me of a decision I once had to make. Leave or stay - and it could change everything. I turn around to look at her, far away from the other room. Sarcasm drips off my grin as I stare at her, more confident that ever. I'm laughing in her face: "Well, in that case: don't forget to lock the door behind me."

I've learned to miss the people that love and protect me a long time ago. I've learned to miss what I lost. But wasting time on someone who can't love me for being me - I'm just too tired to even bother. I once had a life without an Abuela. I got used to it. I'll do it again.

* * *

"Hi, Santana!"

An overly excited and genuine welcoming voice makes me smile. Detective Webb still checks up on me weekly, to see how everything's going. I stop by at the police station every single time I pass the old building in town. All the people here seem to find hope whenever I walk in when all of it has tragically disappeared. The man wraps his arms around me before guiding me to the coffee room. It still smells like hot chocolate around this place. It still awakens the feelings of being set free for the first time again.

"How are you? You look great! Tell me, tell me, what are you up to?"

He's too energetic to be an officer of the law. His eyes light up whenever I'm around, like I'm his trophy, his reason to keep fighting the fight. This man does everything for me. He took me to the crossroad where I got abducted a few weeks back when I asked. I've been avoiding it all this time. He also showed me my old bike a day later. It's evidence. And all that time, he stayed next to me, keeping a close eye on me.

I shrug and drop down on the couch that's become way too familiar.

"Nothing much. I'm trying to write. And I still do therapy three times a week."

He frowns to express his level of care and puts a warm hand on mine: "Is it working for you?"

He knows something's wrong. Detective Webb was the first person to talk to me when I got rescued. And he became a loyal friend and caretaker. This man hand-selected the best counselors in town to help my family cope. Maybe _he_ really is my therapist. The one that makes it all better for me.

"I don't know. There's stuff … happening."

Though he might just be a cop, all the life experience this job taught him makes him understand me better than I sometimes do myself.

"You miss Brittany, don't you? She's been gone for a while now."

My lost eyes flare up to him and I immediately nod. Michael, as his name is, never asked what kind of relationship the two of us were in - he knew instantly. He's a perceptive man, you see. A smart man.

"I do. But I don't care." I sigh, filled with confusion.

"You don't care? Well, you _should_. You have a job now, this entire life to figure out, a family that loves you. That's quite remarkable. You _should_ care."

I nod, feeling number each and every second that passes while thinking of her. It all doesn't make sense to me. Michael puts his hand on my shoulder to make me look up to him. My uninterested behavior makes him realize something.

"My God. You're right: you don't care." he discovers.

A confused smile lights up my face faintly and I finally look him in the eye.

"I don't. I really, _really_ don't. Why should I, right? All that people have ever done is let me down or break my heart or lock me up in a basement. And time after time I was like: 'Stop caring, Santana. Just stop caring, it'll make everything easier.' But then it turned out I couldn't and I got too involved again and I got my hopes up and - _bam_ - as soon as I did, I got hurt again. And it's been one too many, I guess, because I genuinely feel as if nothing can get to me anymore, which - to be honest - feels really fucking great for a change."

The guy doesn't even know half of what happened recently, but he patiently sits there and listens. I'm not even exaggerating. I honestly haven't been experiencing a lot of emotions the last few weeks. Nothing can shake me up anymore, not even my Abuela being a bitch.

"So you're saying you feel nothing?" he doubtfully wonders out loud.

I shrug, much to his surprise: "Nothing. I can't even be bothered to think about what people call the important things, because they don't feel that way to me."

He sighs, putting his hands in front of his mouth.

"And what about Brittany? You don't care about her?"

Of course I do. She's all I care about. The only exception. But that doesn't matter.

I explain: "When it doesn't click, and you try too hard … It'll crack."

He has no response to that, so he just sits back and studies the way I'm calmly staring out of the window for the next ten minutes.

* * *

**_This was all about Santana's progress and how she's stumbling back to feeling down without Brittany by her side. Next chapter will have some Brittany again ;) Promise to update soon!_**

**_x _**

**_Snicky_**


	13. That different point of view

**Sorry for the late update, but I decided to squeeze an entire new chapter into the story. You'll get it ;)**

**That different point of view**

* * *

**Their little girl**

* * *

They were pacing up and down for about twenty minutes before one of them actually dared to say what was on their minds: something was wrong. Their little girl would never just _not_ show up to her father's birthday party. Her mom had begged her to be on time and just ten minutes ago, she was raging about how Santana had the nerves to show up late. But another ten minutes had passed and they had called Quinn and Coach Sue. Nobody knew where she was. Quinn promised she left _sort of on time_, which wasn't a surprise. But, that was about thirty minutes ago. Santana was an excellent biker, she only needed ten minutes to get home from school. The room next door was filled with family members. Nobody had picked up on the nervous behavior of the Lopez'. Abuela kept the audience entertained with stories about the neighborhood she grew up in. But they couldn't raise a spark of interest in the worried set of parents, who were still anxiously dialing Santana's number like crazy. She didn't pick up. And knowing their daughter's incredibly annoying habit of having the phone glued to her hand, that meant trouble.

"We should call the police." Maribel whispered, grasping her husband's hand in fear.

But Beto shook his head all disappointed and heaved a deep sigh: "She's twenty minutes late, the police will just laugh about it."

His voice was silent and quiet, but that's not how the man was experiencing all of this. He had seen the look in Santana's eyes when she left this morning. It was a quick glance, because, like always, she had to hurry up or she'd be late for school. But that glance contained a promise to be there, for her father, for his party. He remembered her last exit and held some fingers to his forehead. It drove him mad.

"I'm going to take my car and drive to school. Take the exact same route she does every day and see if she … fell or something? Maybe she fell and she can't get up."

It was almost hopeful, a desire that that'd be it, nothing more. Maribel nodded, but assured him she'd join him. Four eyes could see more than two.

* * *

With whispering words, they had informed Abuela about their worry. The old woman frowned with disbelief and promised to stay at the house, to make sure the family wouldn't get anxious without a good reason. If Santana surprisingly showed up anyway, she'd call them.

The two of them got in the SUV Beto had bought to visit patients at home and took the fastest route to the high school Santana loved so dearly. She was a popular girl, and going to school was easy for her. She was one of the best cheerleaders, she had boyfriends every other week, everybody adored her. And, like her father always said, she was extremely pretty - that helped in every situation.

"What if something happened?" Maribel asked, nervously skimming the road in front of her.

Beto didn't answer. He just couldn't. That would have to make him think about the worst scenario. And he refused to accept that bad things would ever happen to his little girl. Instead of replying, he put his trembling hand on his wife's and patted it in a desperate attempt for comfort.

The first try turned out to be a failure. Nothing to be seen, nothing suspicious. The school was empty, the cheerleading locker rooms were empty. And Santana's bike was gone.

It had Maribel thinking: "If you're on a bike, wouldn't it be easier to get home by taking Wayne Street? To avoid the traffic?"

Beto nodded after giving it some thought. It's not like they had interrogated Santana about her specific directions to get home every day. As long as she showed up each time, it was good. Nobody ever gives it a decent thought. Turns out, they should.

Another search for their little girl started after a final check of the entire premises. But not even the principal was there anymore. It looked like a deserted place. An hour had passed and Abuela didn't call yet. That meant Santana was still not home. Beto's phone kept ringing like crazy. It was Quinn, it was Coach Sue, it were patients he really didn't want to reply at that time, but he did, because he was a doctor and that meant a lot to him. But all he did was refer them to a colleague, due to a family emergency. When he looked to his right, he caught his wife wiping away some tears of frustration. She felt like the earth was slipping from underneath her. Something was happening and she had no idea what. That scared her.

"You're not rambling in Spanish." her husband noticed, wisely ignoring the tears.

She snapped out of her infatuation and turned her head towards him: "What?"

While her kept searching the sideways and alleys for some clues, he explained: "When you're nervous, you ramble in Spanish. I don't always understand it completely, so I just nod and you think I get it. But I don't."

It was like a confession, something he needed to get off of his chest. Maribel found herself smiling softly. Beto had lived his entire life in the States. His mother was an American woman, who fell in love with an immigrant. He knew some phrases and the basics of the Spanish language, but he hadn't needed it until he met his wife and mother in law. He had always raised his little girl in English, his wife did it in Spanish. Sometimes, he didn't understand a word of what was being said between the women of the house. Sometimes, he saw that as a blessing. But Santana preferred the language of the country she was born in. It was everywhere: at school, at the mall, at cheerleading camp, … And thought she had tried, eventually, she stopped communicating with her mother in the supposed way.

They drove for another five minutes, so incredibly slow that it pissed off other drivers behind them, but they didn't care. It took them some time to make sure everything was investigated. Besides, it was dark now, that didn't help at all.

"I am going to kill her when she just shows up with some boy on the doorstep." Maribel sighed, kind of hoping that that would be the least bad thing she could do to them.

At least that would mean Santana was back. And all the worry and desperation wouldn't have been necessary. It'd be such a stupid, meaningless thing. Beto agreed.

When they approached the crossroad that would lead them homewards by crossing it, Maribel suddenly squeezed her husband's arm. He looked up and saw an expression taking over her entire face that was unfamiliar to her. It was her look of terror, one she had never needed before.

"Her bike! It's her bike!" she screamed, rather loud.

She was right, it was lying on the sidewalk, like someone had just dropped it and left it there to rotten. Beto accelerated, only to hit the brakes hard a few seconds later. They jumped out of the car and ran over to the bike that Santana had picked for her fifteenth birthday. She had begged her dad to buy her a car next year instead, but he refused. She was young, she had legs that worked; riding a bike wasn't a punishment, it was good for her. She had hated him for about a week, you know, childish hate, and it sort of broke his heart and made him laugh over her silliness at the same time. But it passed and somewhere deep inside, he knew the car drama would just show up again by the time she turned sixteen. He was right. She hated him again for a whole week - and like always, it passed just as easily.

But now he was looking at the bike she had handpicked and it made him nauseous. Santana would never just throw it aside like that. She actually took great care of it.

"Beto!" Maribel gasped, which made him look up immediately.

She was pointing at a shiny little thing, seemingly stuck between the sidewalk and the driving lane. Some papers from a wandering newspaper covered the full sight of it. Beto walked over to it and picked up the thing that quickly turned out to be Santana's iPod. That's when the scenarios suddenly did enter his mind. The ones that absolutely terrified him the most in the world. Those of his little, precious miracle being hurt by somebody else. Everything faded out, the sound of Maribel's choking crying and the nearby traffic. All he could see was the deserted bike and his daughter's iPod in his hands. He turned around and studied the ground underneath them, in desperate search for clues. There were no skid marks or anything suspicious. There was no blood. There was no indication that anyone had been here for the wrong reasons. It was just another crossroad.

The noises suddenly reentered his essence and when he turned around, he found his wife in a panic attack. He walked over to her and gave her a firm shook, so she would snap out of it.

"Calm down, Maribel. Calm down. I'm calling the police now. Okay?"

She was shaking like crazy, but she eventually nodded. He searched three of his pockets for his phone, but realized after a while that it was in his car. When he finally held it in his hands, he dialed the number that had brought hundreds of patients to his care. 911.

* * *

**Her best friend**

* * *

She took another route home that night, simply because there were a lot more quicker ways to get home than following Santana every day. Besides, following Santana was a bitch. That girl had some fast skills - something she'd never admit to her! When she parked her bike in the garage, she grabbed her phone and texted her best friend.

_'Got home on time, Snarky? Or experiencing some Latin drama?' _it said.

But some minutes passed while she carefully started unpacking her bag filled with dirty clothes from practice and she got no reply, which was sort of weird. Santana had her phone glued to her hand. She did nothing else but text and sext and spend her time on Twitter and Facebook. It was disgusting, but she had the best conversations in the world and Quinn would always be allowed to read them.

"Quinn!" she heard her mother shout from the other room.

She walked in and found her dinner, nicely spread across the table for her.

"Sit down, you need to eat." the blonde woman said in a pressing way.

Her mother was a very determined caretaker. That successful little girl of hers was Captain of the Cheerios, she had awesome grades, nothing could possibly go wrong on her road to success in the bright future God had intended for her.

Quinn did as she was told and poked her fork in the mashed potatoes a few times in a row.

"What's wrong?" her observant mother asked. "Not good?"

She almost challenged her daughter to tell her her cooking was bad, but Quinn just smiled softly and shook her head: "No, it's good. It's just, I'm waiting for Santana to reply."

The elder woman sighed all annoyed and expressed her disapproval: "You girls and those phones. You should focus on studying and practice. And enjoying a good meal."

Quinn had heard this speech a million times and rolled her eyes. She put some of the potatoes in her mouth and then grabbed her phone to text Santana a second time.

_'Your parents can't be giving you such a hard time over getting home late? ANSWER ME, WOMAN! TACOS ARE NOT WORTH IGNORING YOUR BFF!'_

She smiled a bit over the excessive use of capitals and put the device down next to her plate. Her mother and she had a nice talk about practice and school. They lived alone in this _nice_ house in this _nice_ neighborhood. Her parents were divorced. Every other weekend, she'd spend a few days with her old man, just a couple of blocks away. But being around her mom all alone had its benefits.

After a while, Quinn got reminded of the lack of response of her best friend. She tapped the button that lit up the screen of her smartphone and all she saw was a picture of both of them, dressed up in their cheerleading outfits. Not a missed call or a text message she didn't hear. Suddenly, Quinn got nervous. She picked up her phone and without letting her mother know that the conversation was over, she started ringing Santana, much to her mother's displeasure.

"Excuse me?" the older blonde of the two confusingly - and worked up - asked as she saw her daughter putting down the phone all frustrated. "What just happened?"

"Santana's not picking up. There's something wrong." Quinn said, mostly talking to herself.

She squeezed her eyes to think things through. That's when her mother finally figured it out: her little girl was really worried.

"Then call her parents. If you think there's something wrong, call the Lopez'."

Quinn decided that it was a bad idea. If Santana was getting a hard time because she got home late, she'd be the last person her parents wanted to talk to. They knew well enough that every single time Santana got in trouble, Quinn was her accomplice.

She finished her dinner and thanked her mother for the delicious food, but it was a lie. Because she didn't enjoy it at all: all she could think of was her best friend, and why she didn't answer.

Another text message failed to receive a reply when suddenly, her phone started ringing. Quinn got up from her bed, where she was chatting with some fellow students, and heaved an annoyed sigh as she made her way over to her desk.

"Oh, so _now_ you're going to call me, you idiot." she said to herself.

But when her eyes met the screen and found 'Dr. Daddy Lopez' on it, her heart stopped beating instantly. Was this to yell at her? Or prove her right.

"Hello." she answered, all nervous.

"Hi, Quinn. This is Beto Lopez. Sorry to bother you, but … is Santana with you?"

Quinn dropped down on the desk chair next to her and frowned without taking a breath.

"No. I thought … I thought she was at home. She left before me because she had to be at your party in time and -"

"She left alone?" Santana's dad asked.

Somehow, Quinn's answer would feel like admitting she did something wrong.

"Yes. Sort of on time. I was running late. Wait, so - She's not there?"

Her best friend's father sounded nervous and she felt the exact same way.

"No, that's why I'm calling you. I can't get a hold of her."

A silent few seconds passed and none of them said a thing.

"I'm starting to get worried." Beto suddenly admitted.

Quinn opened up her mouth, but shut it again straight-away. Telling him she has had a bad feeling would not exactly calm him down.

"I've texted her, but there's no reply. Maybe she ran into someone on her way home, you know how she is."

She tried to raise a smile on the other side of the line, but it quickly turned out that she failed.

"Okay. Well, … I'm going to call some other people now, maybe someone knows where she is. Will you do the same for me, please?"

Quinn promised him she would and hung up the phone. She got up on her feet and ran downstairs, screaming for her mother, who turned up all surprised and confused in the kitchen.

"What's wrong? Who died?"

"Santana's not home." Quinn rapidly informed her, while panic started to take over her entire being. "I knew something was wrong. Her father called me to tell me she didn't get home. And she's not picking up her phone - at all. It immediately goes to voicemail."

Quinn's mother frowned in a way to shed some light on the situation, but found herself even more confused afterwards.

"When did you last see her?"

Quinn blinked a few times to organize her thoughts and then looked up again: "In the girl's locker room. She had to leave without me because of her dad's birthday party and I wasn't dressed yet and …"

Suddenly, the girl stopped talking, while her face went pale.

"What?" her mother asked, noticing there was something wrong. "What is it?"

"I said: what's the worst thing that could happen?" Quinn gasped, holding on to the counter in a way to remain on her feet.

* * *

She did as Beto told: she called every single person in her contacts to see if anyone knew where her best friend was. All the time, she kept hearing herself saying those last words to Santana. She was such a bitch sometimes. Such a stupid bitch.

Nobody had good news, since nobody had seen Santana. Even Quinn's mother began calling people, parents mostly. Turned out to be nothing as well.

"I called _and_ texted her dad. He's not replying." Quinn sighed after forty minutes, ruffling her own hair.

Even though her mother tried to come up with a positive explanation, she only found one reply that made sense: "They are probably busy looking for her."

That made Quinn's stomach turn, because it sounded like looking for a body or something. Nothing bad could happen to Santana - ever. It was just not an option. What would she be without her bitchy best friend? They hated each other because they loved each other so deeply. It was the weirdest of friendships, but it was the best one she ever had.

"Mom, can I please borrow your car? I have to do _something_. Maybe she … she fell."

It was a desperate attempt to hope for the best, and her mother read it off her face.

"You know what, I'll go with you. I'll drive."

* * *

**Her new friend**

* * *

The girl heard all sorts of noises coming from the front part of the house. She remained in the kitchen, just like he had ordered her to. And she had learned to listen to him. The blonde girl looked down at her shapeless clothes and listened all curiously. Not a lot of things happened around the house. John was a guy who liked things quiet and peaceful, except when he was playing games on his PlayStation. Brittany had been with him ever since she was a little girl. He was in her earliest memories. He was in _all_ of her memories. Every once in a while, which barely ever happened, some strange guys came over. That was when John had brought home a few girls. He hid them in the basement and Brittany would only be allowed downstairs to bring them food or clean up their mess. They never stayed long. Those dodgy guys took them away, after giving John a pile of money. The young blonde wasn't sure what it meant, though. She'd never been outside through the front door. John had warned her that it was a dangerous place. The backyard was _safe_, there were trees and flowers and grass. What would a girl want more in the world? The front door led to a world Brittany would be afraid of, he explained. She needed to stay with him, to take care of him, because he went out there every day and faced the dangers to protect her.

But there hadn't been girls in a long time, Brittany remembered. Maybe he brought a new one home? A new girl he rescued from her parents. Just like he had rescued her. She had heard the story a million times before: Brittany's parents didn't want her anymore, so instead of just leaving her behind all alone, John offered to take her in and raise her himself. He was her savior, because God knows where she would've ended up without him? Girls out there didn't survive alone. And he was so very good for her. As long as she obeyed him and did as he told, she had nothing to worry about. It seemed so logical. Everything, really. She cleaned the house, washed his clothes, cooked him dinner - and in return, he took care of her. Like she was his own daughter.

But that stumbling in the room next door rose all sorts of curiosity inside of Brittany. She wanted to know how the girl looked like, where she came from, how badly her parents were treating her. Maybe she was just excited to meet someone new. John was the only person she talked to, and sometimes Brittany made up conversations with the characters of the books she was reading. In her dreams, she met all of them and they relived the best scenes together. John never was part of it. It was the only way of experiencing something personally, since every other thing that ever happened or was being said involved him.

* * *

An hour later, she was still standing silently in the middle of the kitchen. She had once dared to interfere a conversation John and one of his weird friends were having - she was still a little girl - and he had punished her massively. That taught her well.

John finally appeared in front of her, dressed in black clothes and a hat. He looked nervous, but that happened often. Brittany asked if he was okay, she didn't dare to ask about whatever he just did in the basement. If John had information, he'd give it, it was as simple as that. She grew smart enough to remember.

It took him four minutes to wash his hands, then another silent one to dry them with a kitchen towel. They were trembling, Brittany noticed.

She prepared him his supper and stood quietly next to him as he ate it.

"I'd like you to check up on a new girl downstairs in a couple of hours. She's asleep, because she's tired of the emotional journey that her parents put her through."

Brittany didn't question a word he said. She saw an opportunity to meet a new girl he had rescued, that was just _awesome_!

But he carefully looked up to her face, that carried an expression of utter joy.

"This girl may be a bit confused when she wakes up. You know, ..."

She nodded: "Like the others."

But he disliked the way she seemed enthusiastic.

"Do not interrupt me while I'm talking." he warned her, carrying massive aggression in his voice.

Brittany apologized without blinking and lowered her head in shame. It was a bad idea to displease her keeper. John took a deep sigh an unconsciously rubbed the skin of his knees. He was in pain. Brittany wondered what happened to him, but she kept herself from asking.

* * *

Three hours had passed when Brittany made her way downstairs. She was always nervous when it came down to meeting new people. Especially these girls he brought home. Somehow, none of them ever was genuinely interested to get to know her. But John had explained that having just suffered a great trauma like running away from their parents who were anything but caring and loving did strange things to the psyche of people. They'd be mad and confused for a while, yell and cry - mix up the truth and imagination. It all passed after spending some time alone with John. She had witnessed it, so she believed him.

When she opened the massively secured door, her trembling feet made her enter the badly lit room. At first, she had to take another look, because her eyes fooled her into believing that there was nobody there. But then she found the girl, pressed up against the wall, eyes squeezed shut in fear. Brittany took another couple of steps and then remained quiet for a while, staring at her own bare feet. The girl in front of her looked terrified, and that made her sad, because all she wanted was to be a nice friend, like she had read in her books. She was just _dying_ to have a friend.

Brittany immediately noticed that the girl in front of her was drop dead beautiful. She was special, she _felt_ it. Like there was an instant spark between them. The dark-haired hottie finally opened up one eye and the sight seemed to surprise her. Brittany kept her arms politely behind her back, like the characters in her favorite books always did whenever they were having a conversation. But she couldn't stop feeling nervous. That girl had that effect on her.

"Hi," she finally said courageously, after giving her confused, new friend some time to adjust.

But there was no reaction, so curious Brittany took a step forward. Heavy gasping demonstrated the level of fear rushing through the other girl's body and Brittany decided to calm her down with soft hushing and gentle movements of her hands.

"I won't hurt you." she promised. "I'm here to meet you."

The new girl's voice trembled, but Brittany couldn't be happier, because she finally heard that special one speak for the first time: "Meet me?"

Brittany nodded, because that's what she always did with this girls. John brought them in and she took care of them one or two times a day, after John'd been visiting them. That's when they were calm and shaken up. Ready to progress their loss, John has explained. But John sent her downstairs without going first this time. He needed to take care of his bruises first, so it seemed.

The Latina girl had a rope tied around her hands, but Brittany didn't think that was weird. He did that because some of them could go crazy when John was not looking. He couldn't risk that their grief and confusion would drive them mad and do crazy things to themselves. It was a thoughtful measure to keep them safe.

"I'm Brittany," she introduced herself, very genuinely happy to meet the other one.

* * *

**Worked hard on this one! Hope you all like it :) Spread the love!**


	14. Road trip

**Road trip **

* * *

Surprisingly, Brittany's back in town for some police business. The cops are ready to close the case and so they need final interviews to make sure every detail's there. But they didn't tell me that. They especially left out the part where they'd bring back my ex-girlfriend to finish their investigation.

First thing she did when she landed, was drive over to my place. It was two in the morning, but that didn't seem inappropriate to her. Honestly, her waking me up in the middle of the night was the best thing that had happened in weeks. Her mom went directly to the hotel. I bet she put up a fight about her daughter coming to visit me, but, as the facts turn out, that didn't stop Brittany from trying. And ending up here.

I saw her, as I opened the front door while rubbing my sleepy eyes, and nearly fainted once I realized who was in front of me. She never warned me about her return, however short it might be. I was so close to forgetting about her that our memories seemed like foggy dreams from a long time ago. And this perfect tiny woman in front of me felt like a ghost. Hottest ghost in the world, that is.

She rushed into my arms and hugged me for two silent minutes. It felt unreal to touch her again, to smell the delicious scent she had. But it _was_ real - and it took me seconds before it hit me. It made me feel _something_ at last. She was clenching onto me, like she had missed me. All I could do was experience it, fighting with myself internally about how to react about her return.

And now I'm staring at her, in my pajamas, walking around the living room barefoot, like I'm Quinn this time and she's me - like I haven't seen her in years and I'm not sure wether I'm awake or not. Brittany's curiously having a look around the place, just to discover that nothing has changed. Back when we first left the Fortress, she spent a week in this place, still very close to me. I sometimes think about those days when I feel lonely.

My parents are out of town for an anniversary weekend, so Quinn stayed over to make sure someone's around. She's in my bed, sleeping. That idiot wouldn't wake up if a bomb would explode next to her pillow. She doesn't even wake up when I playfully sprinkle her with water … so, she took away all the fun in that. All that girl's got to give at night is drool on my pillow and a theft of the blankets.

"Do you have new shoes?" she asks, pointing at some designer pumps at the book shelf, just to make a conversation happening.

Brittany's pretty passionate about shoes. The only ones she used to wear were those hideous sneakers John bought her. Once she had seen my enormous collection back at home, she decided she wanted at least as many pairs.

I shake my head and faintly smile: "They're Quinn's."

"She forgot her shoes?"

Like a person would ever forget his own shoes?

I smirk: "She's asleep."

That confuses her. She never really met her, you see. There's only stories about her. And they never included her sleeping in my bed.

"Where?"

I sillily smile and shrug: "In my bed. Where else?"

Her reaction is uncomfortable - and to me, it even seems a bit jealous: "And where are ... _you_ ... sleeping?"

A half smile colors my amused face. Is she really implying this? I cross my arms and frown all defensive - but I don't forget to remain amused about her behavior.

"In my bed. Why?"

She's eager to act as if it's nothing. But it's something. I know this girl. She's freaking jealous. And that makes her so very attractive. Shit.

"Oh, no - nothing. It's just ... I assumed that …"

But I'm not letting her win this one. She has no right what so ever to judge me. She doesn't even get to ask how my love life is going - even if I actually had one.

"Yeah ... So how's your boyfriend?" I smile viciously, just in time to set the boundaries.

That wakes her up again. She gets it.

"He's _not_ my …" she starts, but then she just puffs and sighs. "He's fine."

I nod. Yeah, suddenly, I realize that I absolutely don't want to discuss this. Time to go to bed, that's what it is. I can't have a normal conversation after just seeing her walk in. Because all that I want to do right now, is kiss her. And that's not the best idea.

"Did you want anything else?" I ask, practically yawning.

Somehow, it feels like I'm throwing her out. But I'm not. I'm just really tired. And overwhelmed. I need to process this surprise visit.

"No." she pleasantly sighs with a dreamy look in her eyes. "Just to see you smile at two in the morning."

In an instant, she takes away all my weapons and armor. My heart has melted again and I walk over to her, to wrap my arms around her like it's an everyday thing. I heave a deep sigh the second we entwine. How badly I would love to tell her that I've missed her. How badly I rediscovered it just now.

But we don't say a word. We just stand there for a while, enjoying each other's presence. She kneads the flesh of my back with her skinny fingers and I like it a lot.

* * *

When you think about it: we've been kept captured for a long time. Brittany's been there for ten years. I only got sentenced to a couple of months in a house we hardly ever left. We have missed the streets and the fields, we've missed the people and the carousel that's life. We've missed time passing by too quickly to even realize it because we're having too much fun - it never happened. And now all everybody does, is keep us locked up inside, because they worry, because they want to keep us safe. How ironic. I need to get out. We both do.

I'm waiting for her after her interrogation at the police station. Her mother's there as well, but I chose to ignore the lady for the biggest part of my time there. We don't like each other and we both know it, why lie about it? Callie's okay with it, I notice. Since her family left, there's been no interference by me. That was her goal in life. She succeeded.

Before her vicious mom can say anything, I run towards her when she leaves the little room she just spend the last two hours. I grab her left hand and awaken a warm smile on her face. God, this feels to familiar. Like she was never gone. Like one touch of my fingers wakes her entire body up.

"Come with me today. I need you to see something."

She refrains from looking over my shoulder, at her mom, and nods in an instant. She missed me as well. I finally see it.

"Okay." she whispers.

Her smile makes me fall in love with her all over again.

* * *

It's been months, but I don't feel awkward around her. I feel alive again, for the first time in … a while. Detective Webb saw it as well. He observed me with a half smile the entire time that we were at the precinct. He saw the happy expression on my face, the relaxed attitude. Brittany's to blame.

I have a vintage Vespa prepared for us, packed with a picnic basket and some warm clothes. The weather outside is amazing and I've decided to show her around this place. Months have passed since we got out and yet, she still has no clue where she comes from. She has seen the police station and the super market. She knows where her family used to live, but that's about it. All she's familiar with is the fortress and the inside of our houses.

She's sitting behind me, cupping my legs with hers as I drive her around town. The sun is shining, there's hardly any traffic at this hour and all around us, flowers and trees are blossoming. It's lovely. It's perfectly lovely. Each time I sneak a peek behind me, I find her smiling - intensely absorbing everything going on around her. And each time I'm ready to park the Vespa and kiss her.

She never really gets anywhere without her family. That's sad. That keeps her from discovering the world, because - like I said - it's in their nature to keep her safe. To keep her far away from every possible John in the world. And that means every single person around. I've begged my parents to stop acting that way around me. I get it, they've been through hell when I got kidnapped. They were desperate and promised themselves that if I were to ever return, they'd take care of me better. More intense, more perceptive. But I'm not a porcelain doll. I'm not a pet you can put a leash on and drag around wherever you go. I'm a young woman and I've been kept restrained for way too long. I want out. I want to see the world.

And now here we are, taking an unauthorized road trip, together. Two fools on the run. We're driving by fields and rivers. We pass meadows with cows and sheep. We even stop for a while because she eagerly wants to pet a horse for the first time in her life. I let her. I even take a picture of it with my phone. But most importantly, we enjoy the silence and the view, without saying a word.

Around noon, I park the Vespa somewhere along a deserted road. We sit down on a blanket in the middle of a grass field and open the picnic basket. It contains sandwiches, some fruit and homemade ice tea. Brittany seems impressed by all of it.

"You really put an effort into this, Santana. I like it. I like this day."

She nearly makes me blush. That's when I start having a look around. God, nature is so beautiful when you pay attention to it. I grab my phone and capture a butterfly sitting on a nearby, pink flower. She watches me closely. I inhale deeply to absorb the world that's happening in front of me. I feel so blessed to be out here. With her.

"Thank you, Santana." she emphasizes.

Her fingers slip across mine and all I can do is stare at the action. My heart starts beating familiarly fast and I smile softly.

"You're welcome." I whisper, desperately trying to catch a breath.

Quickly, I put a sandwich in my mouth, before I say or do something stupid. She explains to me how she's been in intense therapy ever since she left. How her therapist is a really nice woman; understanding and creative. Brittany claims to have made a massive progress, far away from me, just like I wished for her. I'm happy to hear. She seems a bit different, to tell the truth. She seems more grown up, more at ease with herself and everyone around.

Suddenly, she starts asking about me, if I'm still doing therapy. I nod. Three times a week. It's helping. More than ever.

The more we spend time together, the more I catch myself dreamingly staring at her. She notices, but doesn't seem to mind. Instead, she grabs my phone.

"We should take a picture together." she proposes.

I smirk and try to act indifferent: "What?"

But she's not buying it, while she hands the device over to me: "You take a million pictures a day. What? You didn't think I wasn't still checking up on your Instagram account and stuff?"

Her confession is surprisingly thrilling. Sometimes I had wondered if she still kept track of me and now she affirmed it. She makes her way over to my part of the blanket and decides to rub her body against mine, which: holy mother of God! I nervously chuckle and hold my phone in front of us, pointing the camera directly at us. Some poses happen. The first three attempts, we just smile and try out our best faces. The next two, she puts her lips against my cheek and it shakes me up so tremendously that my fingers can barely click the photo button. The last one, as it appears, I'm staring deeply into her eyes, ready - more than ever - to have a taste of her lips. Picture proof of that. Awkward.

But I keep myself from doing so. Therapy didn't only teach me to cope with my emotions, it has also taught me to be patient and learn a thing or two about abstinence.

"I like the fields with the trees," she resumes while eating some grapes and staring at the view once the photography fun has ended. "They remind me of …"

But she realizes she's reminiscing about things she can't really discuss. At least not with others. Her entire body decides to make a change, so she bends over and spreads out across the blanket. Her head's on my lap and I lovingly put my fingers on her blonde hairs. Before I realize it, I'm playing around with the softness of it all.

"The fortress?" I add carefully to finish her sentence.

She turns her head to look at me. It dawns that I'm the only person who knows exactly what she's talking about. It crossed my mind too, today. This middle of nowhere kind of looks the same as the middle of nowhere at John's. Suddenly, I realize something that is not natural to me.

"You miss him, don't you?" I ask, while she looks away from me again.

She shakes her head so faintly that I start laughing. She couldn't fool me, even if she really tried.

"You don't have to lie to me, Brittany. You never have to lie to me."

It's not that I understand, but I somehow _get_ it, when I really think it through. Her eyes close as if she's ashamed about how she's feeling and she lowers her head, burying her chin between my legs. Her right hand is positioned on my knees. Then, out of nowhere, she gives in.

"I feel so bad sometimes, missing him. But they don't understand - he's been my father. A bad father, but when I was little, that didn't matter. He tucked me in, he read me bedtime stories when he had a good day, he made me breakfast. He even bought me a present once, on my birthday. And then, he gave me you."

I run my fingers along her cheek and close my eyes for a second. She's still so happy to have met me during the hideous storm we called life back then - like I was her light, her salvation. I can't express my gratitude about that.

"He was my family, for a very long time. And now he's gone and I'm not supposed to miss him." she whispers, as if it was to herself.

"Says who?" I ask all annoyed.

If anyone's allowed to do whatever the fuck she wants, it's her. Despite _and_ thanks to everything she's been through.

She shrugs while staring into the distance: "Everyone. Everyone _except_ you."

I imagine how she can't talk about it with her family. She used to worship the hell out of a person who kidnapped her. Simply because she didn't realize it back then. And she learned to love him. And now he's gone. Someone she loved is _gone_. Forget how I feel when she's not near, it's nothing compared to whatever's going on in her heart. My hand starts rubbing her forehead comfortingly. I feel so sorry for her, but in a compassionate way - not a pitiful way.

"I'm sorry, Brittany. I know it's fucked up for you."

She nods and moves her body to turn around. Now she's facing me, dreamingly looking up to my eyes. Somehow, the entire world escapes my mind for a second.

She quickly shrugs: "It's fucked up for you as well."

That's not an equal comparison.

"Do you know where they've buried John's body?" she calmly asks, almost too afraid to utter the words.

Her fingers are caressing the jeans I'm wearing. I feel it with every fiber in my body. Actually, I do know a lot more about what happened with John than she did, simply because Brittany never asked the police. I'm determined to know every single detail, even if it was to make sure I'll never stumble upon John again - to be completely convinced that he's dead.

This thought is something that's been on her mind for months now. And for the first time since we were rescued, she dares to pose the question.

"They haven't. Detective Webb told me he got cremated, and scattered somewhere in a meadow." I explain as gently as I can.

"Which means he could be _anywhere_." she concludes. "So there's nowhere I can go … Nowhere to _visit_?"

I feel sorry for her. I wish she could take some of my hatred towards him and make it even out the love and compassion she has left for him. But I can't do that. All I can do is play with her hair to make her feel not so alone.

"No," I sigh. "But … I have an idea. I think we need to do this."

I immediately regret it after saying it out loud, but: anything to help her. She looks up to me with teary eyes and softly smiles. I reach my hand out to her and after a hesitant second, she accepts the offer.

* * *

My heart is beating like it's never beaten before. I feel terror rushing through my entire body. I experience fear and anxiety and … utter terror. Somehow, I feel locked up again, like it's happening all anew. Like getting out was just a hopeful dream, and now I've opened my eyes and the reality of being close to my family and friends was just an epiphany.

The fortress.

The awful place in all its glory.

I never really saw it again after we left. And even as we were rushing out of that house, I can't remember looking back to have a decent look. I just wanted to get out of there so badly - and keep Brittany protectively in my arms.

There's still police ribbon, sealing the crime scene from the curious audience. But there's no audience around this hellhole. Nobody knows the exact location of Eric Madden's house.

I decide not to care whether I'm allowed in there or not. The police shouldn't make that decision for the both of us. We've lived the horror, we should be the ones making that call.

And so I get off the Vespa and nervously look behind. It's late in the afternoon by now and the long ride has worn Brittany out a bit. But now that we're here, she's wide awake again. Her hands are shaking. But it's not like she's afraid. She's nervous. And emotionally confused. I walk back over to her and slip her fingers between mine.

"Are you okay? Are you sure about this?"

She waits three seconds before nodding. God, no, she isn't afraid at all. She's mourning.

We make our way over to the front door and shiver the moment we hear those familiar squeaking wooden floor boards under our feet. John's eyes pass in front of my eyes. I sigh. My left hand rips the ribbon out of the way, while my other holds on to her firmly. This house isn't even locked. All I have to do is push the doorknob and the busted door flies wide open. Such irony, when you think about how intensely locked it has been for ages. Just a push and it's a way out. A gentle stroke that could make a difference. I did that once, on the other side of the wood - and I decided to stay inside, to take care of her. I remember that clearly. I remember my unique way out. And why I stayed.

My throat snaps shut, but I refuse to cry. Still, I can't deny all the chills running up and down my spine.

She's cupping my entire hand and wrist with both her hands as I nervously walk ahead. We slumber around the fortress for a while, passing the living room. The Playstation hasn't been used in ages. Dust covers it.

In the kitchen, the utilities we were about to use when the police stormed the house are still spread across the counter. There's little police stuff everywhere, to indicate evidence and things. I put my free hand on my throat in an attempt to calm myself down, but it's not working. I can smell the bastard's presence. My body is shaking with the memories of him hitting me. Something stops me from looking at Brittany the entire time. One look and I'll burst into tears, I'm sure. She wisely stays one step behind me, wherever we go.

Upstairs, we walk pass John's room. Out of _respect_ for his demands when we all still lived here, I don't enter it. Maybe I'm still afraid. Afraid of a ghost.

My eyes examine the room. Everything's still here. What if I wake up in a second and I'm back here, stuck? What if getting out was a dream? Anxiety takes over my heart beating until Brittany pulls my arm towards our own room. When she pushes the door wide open, there it is: the bed. She finally lets go of my hand and slowly approaches the furniture. Her fingertips carefully touch the wood - like it could bite or snap at her any second - and all of a sudden, her breathing fastens. Sobbing happens and I don't know what to do. I put one hand in front of my mouth and bite my lower lip. Hesitantly, I make my way over to her. My arms wrap around her shoulders and that's when she puts her head against mine to have a decent cry. I resist the urge, because I want to be her person, the one to be strong and rational. Some seconds pass before she turns around to dive in my embrace. Her heartbeat pounds against my ribcage and I smell the perfume she's wearing. The truth is I'm not the strong one here. I'm just as fragile and weak as she is. We both are damaged goods.

* * *

I left her alone to go through some of John's stuff. I don't have a lot of sympathy for the guy, so I try to dodge the mourning part as much a possible. If you ask me: he got away with it easily. Instead of facing his mistakes, he killed himself. He's gone, and we're here, stuck with our memories and struggles. He wouldn't even give me the pleasure to laugh at him, sitting in a tiny, tiny cel. Or kill him myself. He escaped. I didn't.

My feet eventually bring me to the place I thought I didn't want to see: the basement. The old, dirty mattress is still there. I slept on it countless times. This was the punishment area, you see. And I was a very punishable person.

The same stench still lingers here. Sometimes in my dreams, I can smell it. It invades my nose and throat. When my eyes peek at the floor, there's stains of blood. My blood. Unconsciously, my fingers rub the sides of my ribs. Yeah, they've suffered the worst in here. They've felt the tip of his hard, working shoes too many times. And my face met his fists on countless occasions. I grasp for air and take a heave.

Though I'm wearing extremely clean clothes, I can't resist from sitting down on the mattress. On my left, there's the metal pin. The rope's still attached to it. I feel my aching wrists. In the corner, there's the bucket Brittany once brought me. It's been cleaned. She always did that. And suddenly I feel John's presence again.

This freaking place, for fuck's sake ...

This basement is where Brittany and I met.

The kitchen is where we fell in love.

The bedroom is where our life felt normal during the peaceful nights.

The garden is where John learned me how much a person can get hurt.

This house is where a stranger took away my family and my innocence.

Everything is tied to this fortress. And us. To our relationship.

I've remained relatively calm the last half hour. But now I feel emotions soaking in, invading my body like they've been gone for months. Every time I close my eyes, there are memories. Bad ones, horrifying ones. But every now and then, I see Brittany. Her pretty face, her warm hands on my cold feet, her caring touch when she patched me up after a beating. My heart starts to hurt going through all of it again, so I close my eyes tightly to make it all go away. But it doesn't. It's inside of me. It's tattooed in my brains: permanent and non-erasable. This fortress brings out all the worst feelings inside of me. It took me to the edge of doing things I never thought I was capable of. It almost brought me to kill someone, in order to save myself. It almost made me want to run away, with the risk of killing myself if he'd find me. It almost made me invisible, because he cracked me - and I never thought that would happen to me.

I heave a heavy sigh and wipe away some tears that are about to escape. Brittany can't see me this weak. I never was at my worst, so why should I be now? A fighter, Santana. That's what a Lopez is.

* * *

**Hope you liked it! Next chapter is sexy times! ;-)**


	15. A drunk love fool

**A drunk love fool**

* * *

We are checked into a fancy hotel by the time evening falls. She doesn't feel like going to the one where her mother's staying, even though it's just a minutes away. She needs to be near me tonight, she said. She needs to feel me close to her, just in case she'll wake up in the middle of the night, thinking it was all a dream.

I should know better, but I let her. The entire ride back, on the Vespa, we didn't say a word. She just held on tightly to my upper body, with her head on my shoulder. We didn't even wear our helmets. By the time it got a little chilly and we got bored of staring into the distance, we ended up here.

"Here's the key, Miss. Your room is at the second floor, on the right. Number 203. Elevator is down the hall."

The gentle man softly smiles at me. He must be fifty years old. I friendly accept the keycard and thank the person in front of me. He's staring at me and I wonder why.

"Is there a bar?" I tiredly ask, faking a confident half smile.

Any moment now, he'll ask me how old I am, but I decided to give it a try anyway. Seconds pass, while he examines the both of us. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he recognizes us both. We were quite the biggest news _ever_ around town when we got rescued. Some of the locals can't seem to shake our faces out of their memory. The old guy ultimately ignores the age matter and points out a trendy section in the back of the lobby, like he's feeling compassionate about our situation. There's piano music reverberating through the majestic, open door. When I look into his eyes, I immediately get it: he pities us - we deserve a drink.

"This is a fancy place, Santana." Brittany whispers as we're making our way over to the bar.

I shrug: "So?"

She pulls my sleeve and rolls her eyes: "So, it's a bit expensive, no?"

I can't help but laugh over her cute comment. Of course it is. But that doesn't matter. I like to feel pampered tonight. I have a credit card to make that happen. Daddy's way of making up for something someone else did to me.

"If only I'd bought you that car." he said the other day, while we were watching a movie together.

I immediately knew what he was talking about. I had begged him for a car when I turned fifteen. Then, a year later, I begged him for a car again. But he wouldn't let me have one. He was convinced that a bike did just as much - it just took you a little while longer. I was mad at him for a week, but I noticed he found it rather amusing whenever I refused to talk to him or answer his questions. He even made a game out if it.

In his mind, buying me that car wouldn't have let up to all of this. I wouldn't have been kidnapped. I'd thought about it too, in the fortress, but just like everybody else, they need to stop feeling guilty. I learned that eventually, any difference might have brought me here as well. Some things in life are inevitable, you see. And nobody can possibly foresee them.

"I sometimes blamed myself." I answered him while keeping my eyes focussed on the television. "If only I'd left on time that day, then I wouldn't have crossed John's path."

I heaved a silent sigh and blocked out the memory of that evening. That terrifying experience of being grabbed off my bike. That's when I turned my head to look my father in the eye. They were sparkling.

"Truth is, I didn't get that car. And mom didn't pick me up after school. And Quinn let me leave alone. And John picked me. And the sky is blue and donuts are delicious."

He frowns in a disturbed way.

"It was meant to be, Pápa." I explain.

He started nodding almost invincibly.

"I never thought anything bad would happen to my little girl, you see." he sighed after a thoughtful moment. "I was supposed to keep you safe. From all the awful things in the world. I promise I'll do that from now on."

He put his hand on mine and softly smiled. The next day, he got me a credit card.

"Don't worry. Come on, I'll buy you a drink." I tell Brittany, while crossing arms with her.

She smirks and looks over to a sign hanging across the counter.

"This is an open bar." she informs me in a serious voice.

But I refuse to commit to her depressed mood. We've had our moment in the fortress. We relived our lives as victims. Now it's time to move on, or I'll end up falling asleep crying.

"Fine. Then _you_ buy _me_ a drink." I smartly propose.

She pats my shoulder and tells me to sit down. Then, she orders us both a margarita. And _another_ one. And _another_ one.

* * *

It's no surprise that we're heavily kissing and feeling each other up when we enter the hotel room. She started caressing the skin of my upper arm after the third drink. Result: goosebumps. Later, the tips of her fingers circled along the hem of my bra, slightly visible by my shirt sliding down my shoulders. Result: I got nervous right away - not to mention, turned on. By the time we reached the elevator, she had pinned me up against the mirrored wall inside. She groped me wherever she could reach for my skin and I can't say I didn't enjoy it. Her lips touched mine aggressively. She was horny as hell. And slightly drunk, but so was I. Miraculously, we didn't lose that keycard somewhere on our way here. We even managed to smuggle a bottle of wine upstairs.

While she lets go of me to pull her shirt over her head, an intoxicated version of me starts giggling while pouring out two glasses of wine. I put the bottle down and try to have a sip of my beverage when she takes it away from me to pull my pants.

"Come over here, Santana!" she commands.

I get pushed on the bed and she straddles me. The look in her eyes confuses me, even though I'm not exactly at a point where my mind's properly working. But I know this girl. She's frustrated, she's sad about today and all the feelings she went through in a brief period of time. So am I. Part of me is convincing myself to stop her from attacking me in such a violent, yet extremely _yummy_, way. But I can't help myself. I've been waiting to kiss her for so long. I've been dreaming of having sex with her for months.

And so it happens: whatever plans she has with my body, I let her achieves those goals. I feel great for the first time since long. I feel loved and horny as hell and like _myself_ at last.

* * *

An hour later, we're naked under the sheets, panting heavily. The initial rush of the arousal has vanished, so now there's that awkward after-sex moment where nobody knows what to say. I'm just silently stroking her hair.

"Santana. Are you okay?" she eventually asks me.

She's not making excuses for what happened between us. On the contrary, she crawls up against me and puts her head on my shoulder. I can't help but smile like a happy bastard.

"I wish I could fall asleep right now and be in a coma for a thousand years ... On the other hand, I'd really like to finish my glass of wine first."

She starts giggling and pokes my ribs, which makes me shriek.

"I hate how smart you are, sometimes." she tells me.

I nod amusingly and close my eyes extremely worn out: "Yeah, it bothers me too."

But then reality comes knocking and my phone makes some vibrating sounds. I escape from her touch and reach for my device on the night table.

"Who is it? Quinn?" a curious Brittany asks, leaning on her elbow.

I love how jealous she gets over my friend. Especially since Quinn is anything but gay. But I'm not the one who's going to tell her that.

"Yeah, she's asking how today went. Not really sure how I'm going to explain this one."

I said too much without thinking, because I'm not sure if it was an appropriate comment. She remains quiet, so I turn my body back at her after sending a brief answer.

"Tomorrow, we have to go back to our lives," a sobered up Brittany informs me.

She's staring at the sheets instead of me. I nod, thinking about the meaning behind that.

"You mean your boyfriend and your family."

That's when she looks up to me and carries sincerity in her eyes that make me fall in love with her all over again.

"You are my family, Santana."

I crawl back under the white fabric comfortably and wrap my arms around her naked body. A soft peck gets placed against her forehead and I heave a heavy sigh. She then stares into my eyes for a very long time. If we wouldn't be connected on such a level, it'd be awkward. It's not. It's like coming home at last, just like she says. A tear wanders her soft cheek and I wipe it away with a kiss. She grasps on to me, to recognize my heartbeat and I smile like a complete love fool. She closes the gap between our mouths and enrolls us in a passionate kiss. That's when we start making love. Soft, tender. Completely different than just now. I kiss her skin and taste it. I feel her touch and absorb it. I look into her eyes and get her. She's my girl. The precious girl John gave me.

* * *

I wake up around three A.M. and escape to the bathroom to enjoy a hot shower. Nothing like the sensation of water to erase my worries and organize my thoughts. I close my eyes and get carried away by the touch of some sticky hairs on my face. My elbows are placed against the white wall in front of me and my breathing is concentrated and relaxing. The adventure of returning to the fortress is disturbing my sleep tonight. I can't shake it off: the smell, the atmosphere, the memories, John's face, …

Suddenly, I feel the presence of another person in the room. Though the water flow is keeping me from hearing anything else and I still have my eyes shut, I immediately know it's her. She opens the cabin door and enters the shower to stand behind me. When I turn around to have a look at her, I notice she's still wearing the shirt she's sleeping in. It's soaked before I can comment on it. All I see is the shape of her breasts through the fabric that's sticking to her skin. Without saying a word, she hooks her pinkies under the hem of her panties to pull them down in a sensual way. Those eyes keep staring into mine. Her feet step out of the fabric one by one. I swallow deeply and put the tips of my fingers on her lips. She trembles under my touch and that weirdly amuses me. It doesn't take long before she softly kisses me. It's quite intense and passionate. Warm as well.

"Brittany." I whisper, even though I have no idea what I'm about to say to her.

She hushes me and puts both hands on my cheeks. After a few kissing moments, her body forces me back, until my naked butt and back touch the cold tiles of the wall. I grasp for air, because the change in temperature startles me - but it just makes her laugh joyfully in my mouth. She then kisses me again, longer and deeper this time. The cold on my back has magically disappeared; all I experience right now is the unexplainable heat her touch activates inside of me. Her hands start exploring my naked body. She loves it when I'm not wearing any clothes. It gives her the freedom to go wherever she wants without any obstacles. I understand it: I prefer this girl naked as well.

The water is still flowing down the shower head and I love this entire scenario so very much. I pull the soaking wet shirt over her head and throw it next to our feet, on top of her panties. Now we're both fragilely naked. Her knees push my legs apart and the movement turns me on massively. For God's sake, we've just had sex twice in the last couple of hours, how is it possible that we still haven't had enough? When I open my eyes for a brief second to look at her, I suddenly find the answer slapping in my face: just look at her. _Look_ at that smoking hot body. That intense stare of desire, completely animal-like. Her wet, blonde hairs are highlighting the perfection of her body structure and everything inside of me commands to touch her in every perfect place. She's now making soft, erotic moaning noises, which turn me on massively. She's still pushing me against the wall, her right leg forced in between mine. The rhythmic moves she's producing are way too enjoyable to be innocent. Our kissing remains romantically cute, though, like it's the first time in a while since we've had a make out session. Her fingers play around with my breasts for a while and in return, I knead the flesh of her muscled back while heavily panting.

After a few minutes, she kneels to pick up the sexy panties I just rescued her sensual body from and I frown all confused.

"What are you doing?" I ask, in a frustrating way.

All I want is for her to keep touching me, to have hot, shower sex with me. Why is she stopping? She takes the piece of clothing and wraps it around my wrists. I curiously smile. Then, she pushes my arms over my head to tie me to the riser rail against the wall. Given my history, you'd think I'd dislike certain behavior. Sorry to disappoint you, but I don't. This girl just tied me up, so she can do whatever the hell it is she wants with me. And I'm more than happy to let her.

After some nervous laughter, she starts kissing my neck. Her head lowers to my collar bone, which drives me crazy. The discovery journey leads her down my stomach and my waist, just until she reaches that place down there that was invented for ultimate joy. I pull my hands down in a way to deal with the sensation, but they can't move. The shirt won't allow me. So now all I can do is stand there, experience the work of wonder she's capable of and pray to God that it won't make my knees collapse.

* * *

"We can just stay a day longer ... Talk. Hang out." Brittany proposes in the morning, wearing nothing more than a shirt and some panties.

She doesn't want us to say goodbye again.

"No, we can't." I answer, semi-ridiculing her words.

But the blonde lady reacts rather agitated: "Why not?"

I sigh as I finish packing my backpack.

"Well, whatever happened in the shower a few hours ago may be an indication."

I smirk over the hot memory.

"And if we're going to stay here another night, I'm going to get us a bottle of wine again. And we'll end up being drunk - _again_. And when we'll both be drunk, you're going to wish I'd never leave."

A proud smile is thrown her way, but she can't appreciate my smug face.

"Don't say things like that ..."

"Why not?" I frown.

"Because I have a … a boyfriend now."

God, did she really just say that? It's the first time she uses that word. Strangely, she doesn't seem to support her own comment. It's like she just uses it to keep a distance. Her voice delivered it in a repulsive way.

"Yeah ... I don't care about that." I smirk, completely ignoring the fact that I'm massively jealous. "And neither did you yesterday. Or in the shower."

Clearly, the sunlight has brought her some guilt and doubt. She's been acting weird all morning, talking about progress and our hard work and how this might keep us back from going forward. I didn't understand any of it.

"This isn't how I wished for us to end up." she tries - miserably. "But I'm finally doing better. Look at you, you're all confident and sure about everything. I'm not the only one making progress. Being away from me helped you as well. You've turned into such a great woman. All strong and confident again. Look … You know I wish this could be different."

How is anything of what she just said a reason to stay apart? I don't know why, but my entire body is working up. I feel angry and overwhelmed and something inside of me is conscious of how irrational I'm reacting. But I can't help it. It feels like all of my hidden emotions suddenly take control of me. Like everything that's ever rushed through my head suddenly collides and decides to take it out on her. Maybe it's the thought that she'll be gone in a few hours. Maybe it's the fear the experience that same amount of pain when it comes to missing her all over again.

"Oh, please, don't start." I suddenly snap. "What are you going to tell me? That you love me? That you wish you could be be with me? Because you have a really weird way of showing that. Screw my brains out and then tell me you're going back to your loser boyfriend? You don't love me, Brittany. You don't even care about me. Because you wouldn't be doing this to me if you did."

Brittany comes rushing towards me and kisses me hard, in a way to make me stop talking - to stop from saying all these horrible words.

"Don't say that. You know it's not true." she begs of me, breathing through my mouth.

I pant and nod compliantly after accepting my bad behavior towards her. She's telling the truth. I said a terrible thing. I know that. And I didn't mean any of it. Not a single word. Somewhere, I still feel shaken up about yesterday and this is my way of acting out. By being a bitch.

* * *

She holds my hands and remains in front of me for a few more seconds. This girl knows something's up. She didn't see me cry yesterday, because I didn't let her. But I can't fool her. Not even with my best game. That's why we end up on the bed again, staring into the light of day.

"Talk to me, Santana. It's me."

She has the softest and most caring voice ever. One that doesn't make me reconsider.

"This was a mistake, Brittany. I'm a mess again. Going back there … I saw our bed. The basement. Our life together. And you know what I was thinking? I was thinking how it would be really great if we could go back in time and you wouldn't have been there that night. How convenient it would be if you wouldn't have kissed me and made love to me. And that way I wouldn't have fallen so madly in love with you and everything would just _stop_ _hurting_."

My breathing is nervous and fragile. I feel so emotionally disturbed. It's killing me.

"It would stop, because we're not there anymore. We're out here and things are so complicated right now. And if that night had never happened, every time I took a breath without you being around me, it wouldn't cut through me like a knife. Because that's the pathetic idiot I've become: I'm the heartbroken, kidnapped girl who can't get over you. I cry in my sleep, thinking of you. I'm the loser I used to laugh at. And let me tell you: I was never a loser before I met you. Not even in that fucking basement. I was a fighter and ..."

Hearing me talk about the old version of me chokes me up for a second. I catch a deep breath as I close my eyes. My whispering, almost pleading voice, appears. I can't even look at her. My eyes are squeezed shut with fear that I might get too vulnerable.

"I want you to be happy. But I can't accept that I'm not the reason for your happiness. And now all I do is wish that I could forget you. I wish that I could change how I feel about you."

Although I can't see her right now, my imagination predicts exactly how she's dealing with my words. She's sitting there, staring at me, hoping that I'll be brave enough to look her in the eye. Except I'm not. Being out here is more scary than every second I spend in that house.

"Really?" she asks, carrying pain in her voice.

A deep sigh escapes my mouth and I give in. That's when I open my eyes to stare into hers. My heart skips a beat. That's when I realize.

"No." I sigh.

* * *

That afternoon, we say our goodbyes at my place. She'll be on a plane later today, heading back to her new home - leaving me behind again. I don't know when she'll be back. I don't dare to ask. Maybe she just doesn't know.

Her mom has called her all night long, all morning and even now, her phone is still buzzing. It's refreshing to see how Brittany doesn't really care a lot about the anxious attempt of attention from her mother. Almost like being with me matters more. Maybe that's just what I like to see in all of it.

I don't know if I'm capable of missing her again. I had found a way to live without her, but she just rushed into my bubble out of nowhere and despite the aftermath, she just took whatever she wanted: me.

One last time, she cups my face with her warm hands and kisses me softly on the lips. I taste her existence, her love, her pain. She's thankful for what happened between us the last twenty four hours. And so am I. But that doesn't make it hurt any less.

When she lets go of me and turns around, we both find an entertained Quinn staring at us with her eyebrows raised. She went out to go grab some groceries. Brittany shyly says hi, recognizing her from pictures, and walks away from the both of us. Her cheeks are red from flushing.

"I'm Brittany. Nice to meet you."

Quinn smirks and nods in a friendly way: "Quinn. Hi."

"We were just … saying goodbye." Brittany faintly tries to come up with an excuse.

I immediately start grinning over that comment, but put a hand in front of my mouth in time to stop from laughing out loud.

Quinn nods, completely unconvinced and crosses her arms in an analyzing way: "Wow, you must be going away for a _long_ time, then."

My gesture to chop her head off the second she comes near me shuts her up. Brittany ignores the comment with blushing cheeks and just as she's about to disappear into a cab, she turns her head at me one last time. I nod, telling her I'm fine and mouth a silent goodbye. She does the same, waves at me with sad puppy eyes and gets in. That's when I feel the weight of the world taking its place on my shoulders. I experience a rapid movement of my heartbeat and realize what people are talking about when they say their heart is breaking. Quinn walks over to me and frowns judgmentally, hiding a smile.

"Shut up." I tell her, before any word comes flying out of that big gap.

* * *

**I really hope you enjoyed this one. Can I please thank all of you again for reading this fic and posting reviews. It means a lot for me to read your support and opinions about Captured. **

**Please, spread the news ;) **


	16. Ding, dong, the witch is back

**Ding, dong, the witch is _back_**

* * *

A worked up woman is pacing up and down in front of me, while I'm sitting on a couch, smartly remaining quiet. The person in front of me is not happy. My publicist rarely ever is. She's holding the last few rough drafts of my work in her right hand. She doesn't like it. Hell, I don't even like it. Something about it just isn't right.

"This isn't working, Santana. I mean, look at your last three chapters. They lack finesse. They lack an emotional input. You've been rambling and rambling about the interior of the house for _ten_ pages."

I crunch my nose and shake my head doubtfully. It was a very unique house, though. Of all the things I hated there, the structure and bold posture of that Fortress was the least of it.

Quinn is standing in the room as well and objects in a supportive way: "It can't be that bad."

But Edna, my publisher holds the papers towards her: "Front _and_ back!"

I try to come up with a decent comment, but somehow, my words aren't exactly going to make it any better. Quinn, who has promoted herself to my never-gets-paid manager, can't refrain from interfering.

"Then what do you want? Medical details about getting beaten? Bloody selfies? Is that what you want, pictures? Because, I'm sorry: she didn't exactly have her smartphone with her at the time."

I hold my hands up, trying to calm the ladies down, and get up on my feet. _Women_.

"Calm down, Quinn. She wants emotion. She wants a story, not a manual."

"How is the entire story not about emotions?" Quinn asks with a half smile, kind of to ridicule me. "This guy mysteriously kidnapped you, he sadistically tortured you, he kept you locked up in horrendous basement and made you his human punch bag."

Edna seems impressed with my friend, though: "Wow, she's like _really_ graphic. Maybe she should write the book."

I ignore whatever bitchy cat fight is going on around me and keep my eyes focussed on Quinn.

"I know what he did to me, Quinn. I wrote it all down - every bruise that I can remember, even though I think there's a lot that have escaped my memories. But that didn't matter to me in there. It was all about Brittany. It always was."

Quinn sighs as she puts one hand in front of her eyes and licks her upper lip. She's getting tired about the fact that every single thing in my life has to be about Brittany.

"And you can't write about that, right?"

I nod calmly. I couldn't do that to her. I would be pushing her out of the closet. She's been pushed around enough in her life.

"What about your friendship? Leave the kissing and sexy details out and you have a beautiful, slightly weird friendship. You can write about that, no?"

I'm not sure. What if I give too much information? What if somehow, people will tell? Quinn reads it off my face and puts her hands on both my shoulders to get through to me.

"If you _don't_ write about her, people will _start_ asking questions, Santana. Only then."

She could be right. It would be wrong not mentioning her. People would think we have something to hide. Technically, we do.

"Okay. I'll give it another try."

Edna, with her dark hair up in a ponytail, is leaning against her desk and smacks her lips.

"One more try, Santana. Or I'll have to bring in a ghost writer. I'm sorry."

Somehow, I can't be mad at the lady. I understand.

* * *

_"I remember sitting in the kitchen on a cold afternoon. Nothing really ever happened in the fortress, so there were boring moments as well. I dosed off. I couldn't help it, it was the result of long nights of suffering the cold and isolation in the basement. John just got me out of there, you see. I had to spend three days in that place, without seeing anyone or hearing anything else but the sound of his squeaking shoes on the concrete floor when he brought food once a day. He even turned off the light the entire time. It's the worst thing in the world, having to spend time with yourself, staring into darkness. Silence is deafening. _

_Being alone with yourself is torture. Being without Brittany was horror. _

_When he finally came to get me, Brittany started crying the second she saw me crawling up the stairs. He had forbidden her to come down. In fact, he took three days off to make sure she didn't even try. John pushed me up the stairs, kicking my feet each time I missed a step. It's not like the house was such a well-lit place, mostly because of all the things barricading the windows and the doors to keep us inside, but when I saw a ray of light for the first time in days, I got a migraine so badly that I immediately had to throw up. John got mad about it, and pushed my face into my own dirt. I didn't care. Somehow, I hoped God would take me away from that place that second. _

_Brittany yelled at him, begging him to stop, protesting with the argument that I had suffered enough for a while. She said it right: a while. He listened to her, like it sometimes happened. He got up and left me lying on the ground. That's when she rushed towards me to take care of me. She always did. I collapsed in her arms and started hyperventilating. I was so happy to finally see her again that tears finally came running down my cheeks. But I was so very tired._

_And so, the next day, he found me dosed off, in the kitchen. Without waking me up first, he just yanked me off the chair, holding on to my hair. _

_Sometimes people wake up from a hard noise and need some time to realize where they are. That never happened in the fortress. The stinging pain of someone pulling your whole body weight along with your hair immediately does that realization for you. John called me lazy, then he called me ugly. I didn't scream or yell. I certainly didn't beg him to stop. My clothes were dirty as hell, my hair was all messed up. He just mentally cracked me in that basement, how the hell did he expect me to care any longer? I grabbed his hands, though, and pulled myself up with the few muscles I had left to release the pressure from my scalp. _

_'So you are tired?' he asked me, determined to wake me up for sure._

_Before I realized it, he held me under the running tap, mouth facing the flow of ice cold water. It was hard to breathe. I guess people call it waterboarding. I call it horror. My lungs shut close each and every time I finally saw the opportunity to grasp for air. All I could think of was Brittany. She wasn't around, she was upstairs, folding laundry. I wished and prayed she's be on time to see this. Maybe she could make him stop. I always relied on her._

_But she didn't return for the next three minutes that seemed to last for a lifetime. The water was so cold that it hurt my skin. My nose and mouth were filled with water. When I opened my eyes in panic, all I could see was his smiling face. He had one hand around my throat. The other one was keeping me from fighting back. I did my best, though. I tried kicking him in the balls, but his strong legs kept me in a strategic grip. Even a straitjacket would've given me more room to move. Eventually, everything around me faded out. I felt my body slip away and there was nothing I could do about it._

_I found myself lying on the ground when Brittany ran over to me in a panicking way. She had no idea what happened, though the wet look and still running water probably gave it away. She held my head in her embrace as I grasped on to her sleeves anxiously trying to breathe again. It hurt enormously. Every movement did._

_John had disappeared. The second I passed out, the fun was gone, so he no longer cared._

_'I am so sorry, Santana.' she whispered, while rubbing my wet hairs back._

_But it wasn't her fault. And I didn't care what he did to me anymore. As I said: I was just tired. So very tired."_

Quinn closes the laptop and heaves a disturbed sigh. She seems impressed by whatever she just read. I had a moment of inspiration and showed it to her. Now she knows why exactly Brittany is so important to me. She has saved me life countless times - even when she didn't realize it. I leave the room to find some comfort on the sofa. My miraculous progress has disappeared. And I can't find it back anymore.

* * *

"You want to hear something funny?"

I'm annoyed as hell today and I don't know why. So instead of actively paying attention to Quinn, I just sigh and turn to my iPhone - God, how I've missed a cell phone.

"Coming from you, it's probably not ..." I sniff with a smirk.

An impatient Quinn violently pushes my feet off the couch, which catches me by surprise. People have this way of handling me, you see. They treat me as if I'm made out of glass. They think I'm unapproachable and that every single word they tell me might hurt my feelings, which is incredibly ironic since I've heard and seen quite everything hurtful the last couple of years. No, wait, that's not ironic … that's tragic.

"We used to be best friends." she continues all worked up. "We did _everything_ together. You told me all about your dreams and expectations. About how you wanted to go to New York as soon as you got out of high school. You told me I was a bitch when I acted like one. And you called me fat when I gained a pound that one time. You said I'd make the Cheerios' pyramid collapse. Now you can't even look at me in the eye when we have some shallow conversation."

It went well for a while. But the healing process includes ups and down, my therapist told me. It's a bad few days now. I look up to her as I lock my phone and put it away. Well, she certainly has my attention now. My analyzing eyes make her shut up for a whole of three seconds. After that, I shake my head with desperation.

"Yeah, see: not that funny, Quinn." I try to ridicule her.

She heaves a sigh that might as well grew from the bottom of her heart and closes her lips by pressing them tightly together. Another few moments pass and she decides to sit down on the couch across the coffee table. Her behavior confuses me. This is not the Quinn I remember from a long time ago. Maybe my mind's got me all fucked up about that fact.

"No, seriously, Santana. You need a friend. Lately, you're so off, so …"

But that's the first funny thing I've heard coming from her, if you ask me.

"I'm damaged goods, Quinn. I wish I could apologize for that, but someone else screwed me over that way."

It's almost a comical comment, except it's not. She nods.

"I know. What that guy did to you ... I ..."

She sighs as she stumbles over her own breathing. Then she looks at me with the most sincere eyes I've ever seen.

"I am so sorry that happened to you, Santana."

I need a moment to work through that emotional apology, because it's the first time I've ever heard Quinn being this scared to bring out her own words. I know how responsible she feels about letting me leave alone that night. She thinks it's her fault that someone kidnapped me. If she would've been with me, riding our bikes together like any other day before that one, John could've left me alone. Except no, he probably would've taken us both. I tell her that all the time.

Hesitation and confusion takes over my entire being, right before I swallow deeply and nod nearly invisible to the eye.

"Me too." I tell her. "I lost my family because of him. And my best friend."

Her emotional stare flares up to me and a faint smile accidentally takes over. It must be the awesome memories we share that pop up inside of her head.

But I'm not ready to be myself again. Somehow, things got worse the last couple of weeks again. Ever since she left a second time.

"You got them back, Santana." she assures me, almost making it sound as a promise.

But nothing about the tone she speaks in convinces me. I shake my head without saying why I disagree, but I assume she can put one and one together. I came back as a broken person. I realize that. They stayed exactly the same, yet I'm not the daughter or granddaughter I used to be. I realized that my grandmother could be right. I hate to admit it, but it's true. It's not their fault. It's John's fault. I can never be normal again, because I've witnessed abnormality in its cruelest form.

"I also lost my innocence, Quinn. I'm not sure if I can actually put a name to it, but what that guy took from me ... I don't know - my hope, my youth, my ignorance. Heck, even my ability to dream. I feel like there's nothing left."

But that mother fucker did give me Brittany. That almost makes me smile with gratefulness.

"Remember one thing, will you? I'm here for you. I'll always be here for you. The good, the bad. I'll call you fat if I have to. You need a best friend, Santana."

A confident shrug turns the atmosphere around, almost as if our conversation has a comical nature.

"Who needs a best friend when I have me?" I ask, while smirking self-confidently.

But she's not done telling me my truth. My behavior pisses her off massively. It's something inevitable, though. Laughing with the things that hurt me comes easier than talking about it, or shedding some tears. I learned that in captivity. Like an animal.

My fingers play around with the hem of my shirt. A frown discolors my face.

"I don't think I need a best friend, Quinn." I try again, softer this time. "Maybe I need a pet to open up? Maybe I need a cat. A cat could be nice. They're as bitchy as I am."

Still laughing away the truth. I've never heard a noise as mocking and disagreeing as the one coming from the inside of her entire body, though.

"You don't need a freaking cat. A cat would take one look at your pathetic life and run away from you as fast as it could. You can't even take care of a fucking fish."

But her out and about expression surprises herself. Back to that conscious lesson, where people can't be frank and rude when it comes to me. Because I'm the _fucked up_ one, you know. Strangely, it's the first time I've _completely_ recognized my old friend that kept me company in my dreams all that time and I start laughing about it.

"I've missed you the most, Quinn." I admit, softly reminiscing the past.

Shyness always had a way to make us uncomfortable around each other, so instead of blushing, she tells me words that make me more at ease and as happy to be home as I've ever felt: "Shut up, idiot."

We both giggle sillily, which warms my heart for the first time since long. This is the first time that our past comes to slap me in the face this comfortably.

"What about Brittany?" she bluntly asks.

It surprises me, therefor shuts me up immediately. A minute passes and I shrug.

"I will always want her."

"And what does that mean?"

My exhausted body sighs desperately: "I don't know. It means that she doesn't want me. At least not now. She just can't. But, you know what? I guess I've been through worse."

The shape of her expression shows doubt and sympathy.

"Yeah. I think so to." she nods, while putting some hairs behind my ears.

I tell her a lot about John. She reads all my drafts. She knows the big lines of what happened in the fortress. And she knows how much I love Brittany. She _is_ my best friend.

"You know, nobody's perfect, Santana." she tells me, in an attempt to wake me from my perfected dream in which Brittany is my savior.

"That's right," I agree. "Until you fall in love with them."

She smirks: "Put _that_ in your book!"

* * *

"So you're, like, _totally_ into girls now?"

I smile shyly, slightly embarrassed and I don't know why: "I am."

Is this an official coming out to my friend? We haven't exactly discussed this yet. Our bodies both bend over the sushi that's in the middle of the coffee table in front of us. My cold hands offer her some chopsticks. I've had too much wine and it's not even seven P.M.. My dad's going to be pissed at me when he returns home.

"So do you want a new girlfriend?"

Great question, really. Do I? Life is so very confusing right now. I just barely survived being locked up, thinking that I'd never see my family and friends again. And now here I am, mostly pretending and trying to forget it ever really happened, coming out to my family and friends and losing half of them over my sexuality again. Life just can't give me a break, so it seems. How can I possibly be worried about dating someone right now?

"You know ... I'd really, really _love_ to have a girlfriend, but - to tell you the truth - I'm a bit worried she might get in the way of my passionate, happily ever after relationship with wine, partying and my favorite television shows ..."

Quinn holds up the chopsticks clenched between her fingers, some noodles held in between them, as I raise mine as well. We toast the food to the realization and giggle. And just like that, the old times re-enter my life again.

The sushi's great. But not as great as the wine. We're legally not exactly allowed to drink, but honestly, that has never stopped us before. Look at Europe, most of those countries allow their youngsters to drink from the age of sixteen. I support that. Sometimes, a girl deserves a drink! Quinn's quite the lightweight when it comes to that, though. One glass and she's lisping and stuttering. It's totally adorable. Bit disturbing as well. And now, after having the whole three glasses of red wine she's fucked. Her body's draped across my couch, staring at the ceiling. She tells me it's spinning.

"I really support the gays, you know, although I'm not ... I'm not gay. I'm just ..."

She hesitates for a slight second. It's enough time to make my brain work. I expect her to say 'straight'. I expect her to say 'normal'. Something as ignorant and casual straight people say all the time without realizing it might hurt others.

But she surprises me by saying the following: "I'm just massively boring and regular ... and _mainstream_. I'm the most stereotypical girl in the history of the world. You're awesome and badass and you take life and beat the crap out of it when it bites."

I smirk over her adorable and intensely passionate formulation.

Suddenly, she stares at me as if she has some kind of epiphany: "I _wish_ I was gay."

I burst into laughter and jump from my couch to hers to straddle her. She starts laughing.

"Trust me, Quinn: you don't. You're a dirty penis loving eternal student with a desire to sleep with as many men as possible until you find that true, rich one."

She opens her mouth widely to laugh out loud and fails at trying to push me off of her.

"You are so right." she admits.

We end up fighting a bit more, up until the point where I teasingly lick her cheek. Quinn's face immediately turns into on of joyful disgust. She squeaks and scream, ordering me to stop, but I just laugh hysterically. It was dead funny to see her all startled.

"You are disgusting, Santana!" she shrieks, while rubbing her face against the fabric of her shirt.

She can't move a muscle, I've got her pinned down strategically. I remain on top of her and continue my tickling and teasing spree. My best friend nearly pees her pants.

* * *

**So this chapter was all about Quinn and Santana and some might be a bit disappointed. But in the next one, which I'll update very soon-ish, you'll see how building this relationship with her best friend helps Santana to organize her thoughts, to realize what she wants in life. **

**Also, I've got 2 more chapters for you guys. Get ready to prepare for the end ;)**

**Hope you liked it and ... please review ;)**


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